


The Mandala

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, Guilt, Healing, M/M, Peace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-30
Updated: 2015-07-08
Packaged: 2018-04-07 00:50:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 29,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4243167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian dies in a car accident on the night of the launch party.  This is the story of what happened afterward.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The News

**Author's Note:**

> This story includes the **death of a major canonical character**. It's about grief, guilt and healing. It's not an easy read to the say the least. If you think you might not be in the right place to read a story like this, DON'T DO IT!! 
> 
> If you're interested in reading stories I've written that are happy and fun, I recommend "The Roommate Diaries," "Sunshine is a Fucking Dick," "On the Edge of Falling," "One Night at Babylon," "The Kinney Collection," "A Feeling of Forever," "Justin and the Sea Monkeys," "No Pain, No Gain," and any story in the "Everything He Knows" collection. You can find all of these stories [HERE](http://queerasfray.livejournal.com/79840.html)
> 
> In writing about Brian's death, I have relied on this article: [When Is It OK To Kill Lesbian/Bi Characters](http://www.afterellen.com/tv/190814-when-is-it-ok-to-kill-lesbian-and-bisexual-character).

_Gather All Around the things that you love . . . and prepare to lose them._  
\- Colum McCann - "Let the Great World Spin"

 

Justin will never forget _exactly_ where he was that night. It was May fifth. He’d just stepped off the curb and was about to cross illegally at the intersection of Barrymont and Hoover. Above him, a streetlight sputtered its last electric gasps before it went dark, while below him, there was a pothole deep enough to break an ankle in. If there was ever a lawsuit, he remembers thinking, the city was fucked.

He also remembers how Ethan squeezed his hand to warn him there was a car coming. It was a good thing. Justin was so giddy after their escape from Babylon that he would’ve walked right out into the street without looking. He remembers the driver was listening to “Boys of Summer.” He remembers the car was blue. He remembers the unpleasant smell of his own sweat and the sensation of mist on his face.

But most of all he remembers a siren’s screams, the way they sliced through the night like knives made of sound.

Later, he’ll recall feeling sick to his stomach, but he’s not sure if that’s true. It might be nothing more than nauseated hindsight – an abiding belief that if he hadn’t felt sick, then he _should_ have.

There are things he does know, though. He knows that Ethan came to Babylon, and he knows that they kissed right there on the dance floor. He also knows that he took Ethan’s hand as they walked toward the door, and that, just before they left, he turned around and saw Brian. Brian’s face . . . But then Ethan tugged on his hand, and the crowd parted as they headed to the exit only to surge back to fill the empty space after they were gone.

That was the last time he saw Brian alive.

 

He didn’t find out about the accident until the following morning. His mom called his cell phone. He remembers how he almost let the call go to voicemail, thinking it was probably Michael intent on bitching him out. 

He knew right away from her voice that something was wrong and thought for a moment that she was going to lecture him about having left the party without telling her and Daphne. He was ready to apologize. It’d been shitty of him to just leave them like that, but he’d desperately needed to be outside, to feel the cold, Alleghany-damp wind on his skin.

But she wasn’t calling about the party. She was calling about Brian.

Justin can remember nothing but tatters of their conversation.

“Justin . . . oh, sweetheart . . . something terrible . . . accident . . . died on the way to the hospital.”

He also remembers forgetting how to breathe. 

“Honey . . . pick you up . . . Daphne . . . call . . . I think you . . . alone . . . maybe . . . Ethan’s address . . . right now . . . Justin . . . sweetie . . . don’t . . . seat belt . . . drunk driver . . .”

It’s funny – the thoughts that go through your head in times like that. While his mom was talking, Justin remembers noticing that a picture on the wall was slightly crooked and the neighbor downstairs was vacuuming. It was only seven. Who vacuums at seven in the morning?

After he hung up, he dropped his phone on the floor and walked zombie-like to the sofa. Ethan sat down beside him and put his arms around him. He didn’t know the details, not yet, but he obviously could tell that Justin had just received devastating news. Justin remembers being unable to be comforted by his embrace. His muscles had turned into bone. All he could feel was the sofa’s worn velvet under his bare thighs and the thud thud thud thudding of his heart.

He didn’t move. Not even when he heard a knock, scarcely audible over the clanging of the radiator, and Daphne’s voice calling his name. Ethan rose to let her in. Justin turned to look at her, not knowing what to expect. Was she going to run to him? Or was she going to just stand there in the doorway? Apparently, it was the latter.

“Uhm, hi,” Ethan said. “You must be Daphne. I’m Ethan.” He held out his hand, but she didn’t seem to see it.

“Oh, _Just_ ,” she said, wringing her hands. Was her sparkly nail polish pink or purple? Or purplish-pinkish? He couldn’t tell from so far away.

Ethan stood there, looking back and forth between them, a lost, frightened look on his face.

“Can someone please tell me what’s going on?” he said.

Daphne looked at Justin, seeking his permission. He moved his head in the ghost of a nod.

She turned to Ethan. “It’s about Brian,” she said. “He . . . there was an accident last night . . . after you guys left. The driver was drunk. Brian . . .”

“Is dead,” Justin said flatly. “Just say it, Daph. He’s dead. Brian is dead.”

Ethan turned to look at him, his mouth open, his eyes wide with horror.

“Oh, my God,” he breathed. “Oh, my God. Justin. I’m so sorry.”

Justin’s voice had broken the spell. Daphne and Ethan sat down on the sofa beside him. They tried to take his hands, but they were clenched in bloodless fists. None of them spoke. Justin will be forever grateful for their silence, for their calm, quiet presence.

When his mother knocked on the door, he stood and tried to remember how to walk. One foot in front of the other – step after step. He remembers the knob felt cold in his palm.

“Sweetie,” his mother said and pulled him into her arms. “Baby.”

“Where is he?” he remembers mumbling into her hair.

“What do you mean ‘where’?” she asked. “You know where.”

“The morgue?”

“Probably.”

“So, I can’t see him.”

She stroked his head, and suddenly a memory, like a splinter, slid into his brain – two nights ago. Brian. Brian twirling his finger in his hair. 

“But I _need_ to see him.”

“I know, sweetie. I know. But you can’t. You just can’t.”

He remembers feeling someone place a hand on the base of his neck. Was it Ethan or Daphne? Did it matter? Whoever it was, he appreciated the soothing touch. He was having a hard time breathing; it was as though his lungs had shrunk to half their size. He must’ve started hyperventilating because the next thing he knew, three pairs of hands were helping him return to his spot on the sofa.

“It’s okay . . . it’s going to be okay,” Daphne said, sitting down beside him and rubbing his back.

But it _wasn’t_ going to be okay, and they all knew it. How could it be okay?

He remembers sitting there for a very long time. Eventually, Ethan got up and made some coffee, while Daphne brought Justin his clothes. He stared at them. He hadn’t even noticed he was wearing nothing but boxer shorts. The clothes Daphne had given him looked vaguely familiar. Especially the shirt. It’d been one of Brian’s favorites. Maybe it was even one Brian had bought for him. Justin can’t remember no matter how hard he tried. Brian had bought him so many shirts. It was hard to keep track of them all.

“I’ll go get some donuts or something,” Ethan said, putting on his jacket and heading for the door. He probably wanted to escape the grief hanging in the air like a heavy fog. Justin didn’t blame him.

Justin’s mom had been leaning against the wall, her arms wrapped around herself. At the sound of Ethan’s voice she lifted her head.

“That sounds great,” she said, smiling like an automaton. “Here, let me give you some money.”

She started hunting in her purse, but Ethan stopped her.

“It’s okay,” he said. “I’ve got it.”

His mom looked oddly distressed as though Ethan had just said something troubling.

“No, please,” she said. “Really. I insist. You and Justin are going to need every penny you’ve got.”

Ethan took the twenty she held out to him with a weak smile that fled his face when he met her dull eyes.

“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll be right back.”

 _Now what?_ Justin remembers thinking. What do people do in these kinds of situations? He had no idea, but he wanted to do _something_. His bones were trying to escape his body, tenting his skin and straining against their tangle of veins. He was pretty sure he’d lose his mind if he had to just sit there all day doing nothing.

“Who told you?” he asked his mom, bringing the silence left in Ethan’s wake crashing down like a shelf stacked too high with china.

“Debbie,” she replied. “She called me this morning. Daphne and I left the party immediately after you and Ethan did, so I didn’t know about the accident.”

Justin dragged his fingers through his hair. He remembers thinking he needed a shower. Last night felt greasy on his skin as though it’s memory was oozing through his pores. But how do you do things as mundane as take showers or eat donuts in these types of situations?

“It’s my fault,” he said.

His mom stomped over to the sofa and slapped him hard enough to leave his cheek pink.

“I _knew_ it was only a matter of time before you said that,” she shouted, ignoring his exclamation of dismay and Daphne’s cry of “Mrs. Taylor!”

“But it’s _true_ ,” he replied just as angrily. “If I hadn’t left with Ethan, Brian wouldn’t have left the party when he did.”

“Even if that’s true,” she said, “what good will come from blaming yourself for what happened afterward? Justin, you didn’t _make_ Brian leave, and you sure as hell didn’t put him in the path of a drunk driver. Brian made his own choice and fate did the rest.”

“Fuck fate!” Justin yelled. “And fuck donuts, too,” he added as poor Ethan walked through the door with a Dunkin’ Donuts box in his hands.

He doesn’t remember where he went, but he does remember leaving the apartment. He _had_ to. He needed to be outside. He needed to be alone. The morning was butter-yellow and warm. Birds sang in the unkempt bushes lining the street. A light green hazy of new leaves hovered in the branches of the trees. He remembers thinking how cruel it was that spring was in the air. 

When he returned, his mom tried to get him to eat something, but the thought made him gag. Everyone else dutifully ate a donut as though watching them might change his mind. It didn’t. Quite the opposite. He remembers thinking that he’d never eat another donut ever again, and he hasn’t. Just the sight of them sucks him down the drain of time until he’s back in that moment – back in Ethan’s apartment, back to the morning after Brian died.

When none of them could take the piano-wire tension another minute longer, Justin’s mom switched into mom-mode. Ethan, she said, should go to his classes, and Daphne should come with her and Justin back to the condo. Justin looked at Ethan. He was being excluded, and he knew it.

“It’s okay,” Ethan said. “I’ve got that recital coming up. I should really practice.”

Justin smiled wanly but gratefully.

“Thanks,” he said.

“Sure,” Ethan replied. “Call me.” He kissed Justin’s cheek. Daphne and his mom looked away as though they’d just glimpsed something illicit. Justin suddenly felt dirty. When Ethan turned to leave, he wiped the memory of his kiss off his face. It made him sad to realize Ethan was going to end up as collateral damage. He didn’t deserve it.

On the way to his mom’s condo, Justin sat in the back of the car with Daphne, holding onto her hand tight enough to whiten his knuckles. His mom drove the long way around, carefully avoiding any place remotely near downtown even though the drive took an extra fifteen minutes. When they arrived at their destination, Justin went straight inside, trying to ignore the ghost of Brian’s presence sitting there on the steps, sunglasses on and a tennis ball in his hand.

 _C’mon, you can do it_.

_No, I can’t._

_Yes, you can._

Fortunately, Molly was at a friend’s house. Justin was glad. She couldn’t possibly have said anything that wasn’t unhelpful.

“Molly met her at day camp last summer,” Justin’s mom said as they walked through the door into the narrow hallway.

Justin stared at her. What the fuck was she talking about?

“The friend that Molly’s with,” his mom explained, setting her purse on the table and taking off her jacket. “They met at day camp – remember? That riding program Connie put together? The horses are all former race horses that’d been donated by their owners. You’ll have to go see them sometime. They’re beautiful. Maybe you could do some sketches? I remember you used to love drawing animals. Oh, speaking of which, that cat Ethan has is a real talker, isn’t he? I think he did more talking this morning than the four of us combined. Oh my, is that the time? I should probably make something for lunch. Would you kids like sandwiches? I could have that sandwich place put together a take-out order. You know the place I mean, Justin. The one right on the corner with the blue awning . . .”

Justin continued staring at her as she kept babbling on. Daphne gave him a sympathetic look.

“Let her talk,” she whispered in his ear when Justin’s mom went to the kitchen to see if “there was enough pop in the fridge.”

He just nodded. He supposed his mom’s chatter was better than silence. 

 

Debbie came over in the afternoon just after three. He remembers his mom going to the door and pausing before she opened it.

“Are you okay with visitors, honey?” she asked him.

He shrugged. To the extent he was okay with anything, he supposed he was okay with visitors.

Debbie was unrecognizable. The tornado of color that followed her everywhere had been replaced by a weak gust of drab exhaustion. She wasn’t wearing even a hint of make-up.

“Sunshine,” she said when she saw him and moved awkwardly to take him in her arms. 

He wanted to tell her not to hug him – that he didn’t deserve it, that all of this was his fault, but he sensed that it would be exactly the wrong thing to say. Maybe she needed to hug him more than he needed not to be hugged.

“Were you there?” he asked.

She stepped back and cupped his face in her hands. They smelled like the kind of soap hospitals use in their restrooms.

“Yes, I was there,” she said. “But, honey, he’d already lost consciousness.”

Justin swallowed and nodded.

“He died on the way to the hospital.”

He swallowed and nodded again.

“Debbie,” his mom said. “Please. Not now.”

But Justin shook his head without turning to look at her. He needed to know. He needed to know everything.

“What happened?” he asked.

“His Jeep was hit by a drunk driver,” Deb said. “The asshole rear-ended him going God only knows how fast. He . . . he wasn’t wearing a seat belt. God _damn_ it! Why wasn’t he wearing a fucking seat belt? The police said he might’ve survived if he had been.”

Deb covered her mouth as tears welled in her already puffy eyes. Justin took her arm and led her to the living room where she collapsed on the couch.

“Can I get you anything?” Justin’s mom asked her. Justin knew she was freaked out. The country club set the Taylors move in don’t break down. At least not in company.

“Only a box of Kleenex,” Debbie replied.

Daphne went to the bathroom to get her one. Deb thanked her and then blew her nose messily.

“Asshole,” she said.

Justin’s mom sat down beside her and took her hand.

Meanwhile Justin remembers just standing there. He’d never been so aware of his limbs. How should he stand? Should he put his hands in his pockets or should he clasp them behind his back? Maybe he shouldn’t be standing at all; maybe he should sit down. He tried, but he couldn’t stay still. At a loss, he walked over to the window and stood there, his back to the room, staring out at the kids playing in the street. Four of them were wearing almost identical red shirts. They looked like cardinals flitting around a bird bath.

“Who else was there?” he asked without turning around. He needed to know.

“Michael,” she said. “He got there first. Brian was still conscious.”

Justin dropped his head and scrubbed his face with his hands. He remembers being both grateful and furious – grateful that Brian hadn’t been alone, and furious because . . . because it’d been Michael. It should’ve been him.

But then again, he’d given up the right to be there, to take Brian’s hand and urge him to hang on. To tell Brian he was loved. To tell him it was going to be okay.

“I don’t know how he’s going to live through this,” Debbie said, choking around a sob. “He was covered in blood. The EMTs had to drag him away so they could get Brian on the stretcher.”

“Debbie,” Justin’s mom said. “It’s going to be okay. It’s just . . . it’s too soon. Of course, Michael is going to grieve. We all are.”

Justin remembers feeling his mom glaring at his back, willing him to turn around and say something. But he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. His mind had been taken hostage by the image of Brian lying there in the street surrounded by broken, bloody glass.

“I . . . I heard the sound of screeching tires and this crunching, crashing sound,” Debbie said. “I just knew . . . part of me just knew something terrible had happened. I knew one of my boys – one of my babies – had been hurt. I just _knew_ it. Mothers know that kind of thing . . . and before you say Brian wasn’t my son, let me set the record straight. That boy practically grew up under my roof. The first time I saw him, he was this string bean of a kid with a black eye and a split lip standing there at one in the morning, right on my doorstep, asking for Michael. I loved him at first sight. Now, I’m not saying he wasn’t trouble with a capital “T” because he was and then some, but he was one of mine. Just like you, Sunshine. I know you’ve already got a mom – and a wonderful mom at that – but you’re like a son to me too. And Ted and Emmett. You’re all my kids . . . you’re all my boys . . .”

She started sobbing.

Justin remembers thinking there was something wrong with his throat. He kept swallowing and swallowing, but it wouldn’t loosen. It only got tighter. 

“Were they there, too,” he asked. “Ted and Emmett I mean?”

“They got to Brian just before I did,” Debbie replied, her voice scratchy with tears. “But like I said, he’d already lost consciousness. Thank God, Michael was there! Thank God, Brian wasn’t alone!”

Justin remembers taking a deep breath and turning around to look at her.

“You must hate me,” he said.

She wiped her eyes with her wadded Kleenex and looked up at him. He remembers her puzzled frown.

“Of course, I don’t hate you,” she said. “You’re suffering as much as any of the rest of us.”

Justin remembers never feeling more grateful toward anyone in his entire life. It was that gratitude that finally – _finally_ – twisted the valve in his heart and set his grief free. Daphne came over to him, and he let her lead him to the couch and hold him while he cried.

Later, when Debbie said she should go home to check on Michael, Justin’s mom tried to get her to stay and rest for a couple of hours. Predictably, Deb said no.

“I can make up the bed in the guest room,” his mom said. “It will only take a minute.”

“Thank you, sweetie,” Debbie replied. “But I’m not tired.”

When Justin’s mom tried to protest, Debbie stopped her.

“I remember you were awake for days after Sunshine was bashed,” she said. “That’s what mothers do. Now tell me, when do you think you’ll head over to Melanie and Lindsay’s? I need to know because . . .”

“Because?” Justin asked.

Debbie took a deep breath. “Because your visit shouldn’t overlap with Michael’s.”

Justin closed his eyes. He _knew_ Michael would hate him with the fiery heat of a thousand suns, but hearing it implied out loud . . .

Debbie stood, but then leaned down and rested a hand on his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll try to talk to him . . .”

“No,” Justin said, shaking his head. “Don’t. I don’t blame him. I’d hate me too if I were him.”

“He’ll get over it,” she said.

He just looked at her. She was lying. They both knew it.

“I . . . we’ll wait to go to Lindsay and Mel’s tomorrow,” he said.

“And your things?” she asked. “I mean, the things you left at Brian’s? You did leave things there, right?”

Justin nodded. Yeah, he’d left things at Brian’s. After all, he hadn’t planned on walking out on Brian without even saying good-bye.

“Michael’s going over to the loft later with Ted and Emmett after they get some rest. Maybe . . . maybe now would be a good time for you to go.”

Justin nodded again. He remembers he was just about to say something – he can’t recall what – but then suddenly he realized he was going to be sick. He barely made it to the bathroom before he started puking his guts out.

* * * * * * * *

It was agreed that Daphne should accompany him to the loft. They drove to Home Depot and bought a couple of boxes, a roll of packing tape and a bag of Styrofoam peanuts. Neither of them said a word on the drive to Brian’s, but when they arrived, Justin pointed out Brian’s parking space in back of the building. It was empty. Of course it was empty. Daphne pulled in and turned off the engine.

He remembers sitting in the car for a long time, crying while Daphne rubbed his arm. When he finally pulled himself together, they got out and carried the boxes and the rest of the stuff up the stairs. He would’ve taken the elevator, but it would’ve brought back too many memories of drunken laughter and lascivious promises.

When they reached the top of the stairs, he took several deep breaths before inserting his key in the lock and sliding the door open. He needed to brace himself. It was nearing six o’clock. Normally, Brian would have just gotten home from work and would be untying his tie and taking off his suit, getting ready for a shower. Justin needed to brace himself for the reality that Brian wouldn’t be there.

“Are you going to be okay?” Daphne whispered as though they were in church.

Justin merely swallowed. Of course, he wasn’t going to be okay, but he _was_ ready to get his things and leave. He didn’t want to linger. Maybe someday he’d enjoy remembering his and Brian’s life together, but not then. Not yet. Probably not for a very long time.

He inserted his key and turned it until he heard the clunk of the bolt’s release. Then he slid the door open . . .

He remembers thinking how predictable it was that the first thing he noticed was the silence. Of course, the loft was silent. It was empty. There was no one there. He called Brian’s name anyway. There was no reply.

Daphne moved quickly, unfolding the boxes and putting them together. The screech of the tape echoed ominously. 

“C’mon,” she said, but Justin didn’t join her frantic packing of his art supplies. Instead, he walked slowly up the stairs to the bedroom. The bed was unmade and littered with nearly a dozen black shirts. Brian had tried on one after the other, searching for The Perfect One for the evening. Justin remembered thinking how shallow Brian was, how overly concerned with appearances. He picked up a shimmery shirt, feeling its silk slip through his fingers. What shirt had Brian ultimately chosen? Was it even a black one at all, or was it another color? Justin remembers being crushed by grief when he realized that he didn’t know.

For some reason he would never be able to explain, even to himself, he picked up each shirt, smoothed out their wrinkles and hung them back in the closet. When he was finished, he turned his attention to his own clothes and started stuffing them into his duffle bag. He was just about to zip it closed when he saw one of Brian’s t-shirts – one of the t-shirts he wore to the gym. It was crumbled in the back of the closet, obviously having escaped the laundry basket. Justin had to get on his knees and crawl over Brian’s shoes to reach it. Brian had obviously had a vigorous workout the day he wore it; it stank. Justin sat down on the bed and buried his face in it, breathing deeply. Someday, the smell would fade, but he didn’t care. He wanted to keep it anyway. 

He was just about to go back downstairs to the living room to help Daphne pack up his computer when suddenly he heard a sound . . . it was the sound of the shower running. Looking back, he thinks that was the moment he started losing it, but at the time, he felt perfectly sane.

He stuffed Brian’s t-shirt in his duffle bag and tiptoed to the bathroom. There was Brian, naked, in the shower, his head tipped back as he rinsed shampoo from his hair.

“You’re here,” Justin said, surprised.

“Of course, I am. Where else would I be?” Brian replied. “C’mon. Join me.”

Justin opened the door and stepped in.

“You’re just in time to wash my back,” Brian said.

He handed Justin the soap and turned around, dropping his head so that Justin could reach his neck. Justin paused for a moment to admire him. He had the body of a classic nude, tall and lean-muscled. Undeniably beautiful. Even Ethan had thought so. Justin soaped his back and his neck and then his ass and the backs of his thighs.

“Thorough tonight, I see,” Brian said.

Justin didn’t reply. He just reached his arms around Brian’s waist and took Brian’s cock in his hand, enjoying the way it swelled and stiffened in his grasp.

Brian made a sound like the purr of a tiger and braced his arms against the wall, indicating he wanted Justin to make him come like that – with his hand.

When he looks back, Justin can still remember his thoughts at the time – his weird thoughts. He imagined that he was an animal tamer and Brian was his animal. He could be anything – a wolf, a lion – it didn’t matter. The point was that Brian had been wild, but he wasn’t any longer. He’d succumbed to the kiss of Justin’s whip. Whatever Justin commanded him to do, Brian would do it. Justin had tamed him. Brian was his . . . 

. . . and then a memory crept into his mind. His mom reading to him when he was a boy. The little prince and his wise fox.

 _You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed_ , the fox had told the little prince. _Never forget that_.

The memory felt like a revelation. He’d always thought of himself as the captured animal – captured by his obsession with Brian – but in reality, it was the exact opposite. Justin hadn’t had to change to be with Brian. He was still the same person he’d always been. If anything had caused him to change, it was the bashing, not loving Brian. Loving Brian had made him more himself, not less so. But Brian . . . Brian had become a changed man. Justin hadn’t seen it, but he did now. Brian had been learning how to love and be loved. Justin had soothed the wild beast inside him, gentled him, made him feel safe. Maybe not safe enough to be able to say “I love you,” but how far off could that moment have really been? If Justin had only been patient . . .

“Stop thinking,” Brian said and reached down to wrap his fingers around Justin’s and strengthen Justin’s grip on his cock. Justin felt a surge of joy. He pressed himself against Brian’s back and placed his free hand on Brian’s chest – right over his heart, feeling it beat, pumping blood through Brian’s veins. Brian let his head fall back, exposing his throat, trusting he’ll be cared for and protected. Trusting Justin not to hurt him, not to betray his vulnerability, not to neglect the wildness he’d tamed . . . 

Then suddenly – just as Brian was about to come – suddenly he heard a voice crying his name. Daphne’s voice.

Reality smashed through the fogged glass wall of his consciousness. He was standing in the shower, fully clothed, sopping wet and very much alone.

“Oh, Justin,” Daphne said, starting to cry. “Justin, what are you doing?”

She came over, opened the shower door and turned off the spray. Then she went to the bedroom to get some dry clothes out of Justin’s duffle bag. Without the white noise of the shower, the loft’s silence was suffocating. He slid down the wall to his knees. There was a tinfoil condom wrapper sitting on top of the drain. He stared at it, remembering how Brian had torn it open with his teeth and spat out the corner. Justin closed his eyes. He remembered being annoyed that Brian wanted to fuck before they left for the party. For all intents and purposes, Justin had broken up with Ethan the night before. He hadn’t been in the mood to be pounded against the foggy glass. But Brian hadn’t fucked him quick and rough like he usually did when they fucked standing up. Instead Brian had moved slowly and deliberately, rolling the condom on his cock and then using soap-slippery fingers to prepare Justin’s body for penetration. When he finally pushed inside, Justin was shaking with want. Brian had been so hard. So needy. So pleased to be the one Justin had chosen.

“Hey,” Daphne said quietly. “I hope these are alright.”

He opened his eyes and took the clothes she handed him. They didn’t talk about what had just happened, but Justin asked her not to leave while he changed. He didn’t want to be alone with Brian’s ghost. She sat on the toilet, examining her fingernails while he stripped off his wet things.

“Is there a dryer here?” she asked. “We can dry your . . .”

“No, there isn’t,” he said. Even if there was, it wouldn’t matter. He wanted to throw the wet clothes in the garbage. The jeans, the socks, the boxers, the shirt . . . especially the shirt. He would never be able to wear it again. Brian had helped him put it on, and Ethan had helped him take it off.

“No dryer?” Daphne said. “How did you guys do your laundry?”

“We didn’t,” Justin replied. “Brian had a laundry and dry cleaning service pick it up every week.” 

He dropped his head into his hands as he realized someone was going to have to call them and tell them not to come anymore. The same with Brian’s housecleaner. Whose job was it to inform them Brian was dead? Shouldn’t it be his? After all, he’d been living with Brian for nine months. Brian’s laundry had been his, too. Brian’s messes had been his as well. They’d just been two among a myriad ways their lives had become entwined.

“Peapod,” he said.

Daphne stopped buttoning his shirt.

“What?” she asked.

“Peapod.”

“What – or who – is ‘peapod’?”

“Peapod is the grocery delivery service Brian and I use. We order stuff online and they bring it to us.”

Daphne nodded, clearly unsure where the conversation was headed.

“It’s Monday night,” he continued. “Peapod is coming tomorrow morning with the order we placed before we went to Babylon.”

He remembers clearly the sudden strange sense of panic that coursed through him.

“Daph,” he said. “Peapod is coming! Peapod is going to be here! I have to stop them! How do I stop them?”

He grabbed her shoulders. What was he going to do?

“We need to get online . . . or call them . . . oh my God . . . what if they’ve already put our order together and it’s on a truck somewhere? How do I reach the driver? Daph! What am I going to do? I won’t be here like I usually am . . . I mean, I can be here, but I don’t want to be here. Please, don’t make me be here when Peapod arrives! I gave . . . I gave Brian a list of ingredients I needed to make chicken cordon bleu. Peabody is going to bring chicken breasts and cheese and bread crumbs and ham and . . . Oh God . . . I’d planned to make enough to bring some to Ethan. I gave Brian a list of enough ingredients to make dinner for both him and Ethan! Daph! I even cheated on him with _food_ and now Peapod’s going to come and my cereal is going to be . . . the cereal I like and Brian can’t stand and his stupid guava juice . . . Daph! We have to stop Peapod!”

Daphne took his hands firmly in both of hers and started walking backward out of the bathroom. When they reached the bed, she helped him to sit down and encouraged him to take deep breaths . . . in, out . . . in, out . . . in, out. But the thought of Peapod and the laundry service and the housecleaner and the bills and the newspaper overwhelmed him so completely that he couldn’t concentrate on her instructions.

“I . . . Oh God, who? How? I don’t know Brian’s social security number. How am I going to get Comcast to turn off the cable? And what about his cell phone? His credit cards? The bills . . . all those bills . . . who pays them? Who, Daph?!”

“Shhhhh,” she said, sitting down beside him and rubbing his back in soothing circles. “Don’t worry. Someone will take care of it.”

“But _who_?” he wailed.

“I don’t know. What about Debbie or Michael or Ted? Didn’t you say Ted is Brian’s accountant? And Lindsay probably knows Brian’s social security number because of Gus.”

Justin remembers knowing he should feel comforted by her words, but they had the exact opposite effect. He’d been Brian’s partner. He and Brian had been lovers. They’d shared a home together – a life. _He_ should be the one who shuts off the utilities and freezes the credit cards and decides what to do with Brian’s things. But it wouldn’t be him. No one had told him yet, but he already knew. Michael would _never_ let him have a say. He was probably lucky that Michael hadn’t had the locks changed so that he, Justin, couldn’t get into the loft.

Just then, as if on cue, the door clanged open, and Ted and Emmett walked in.

Both of them froze rather comically when they saw him walk down the stairs, leaning on Daphne for support. Justin remembers thinking that he’d never seen Emmett dressed less flamboyantly, and Ted was wearing a dark blue polo shirt and black pants. They looked suitably funereal. Justin glanced down at his own attire and winced – the cheerful plaid and faded jeans.

“Hey,” Emmett said.

“Hey,” Justin replied.

In the history of awkward silences, there was, and perhaps never would be, a more excruciating moment.

“Need help packing?” Ted asked. His hands were crammed in his pockets so far that his elbows were locked and his arms were straight.

Justin shook his head. He wondered what they made of his wet hair and whether they’d talk about it after he left.

“Is Michael . . . ?” he asked.

“No, he’s at home,” Ted replied.

Justin nodded and then added. “Is he okay?”

“Yes,” Emmett said.

“No,” Ted replied, their answers overlapping.

“Teddy,” Emmett said. Justin remembers his voice sounded weary and resigned.

“What do you want me to do?” Ted asked. “Lie?”

Another awkward silence unraveled like a badly knitted scarf. Daphne returned to the job of packing. Thank God for the screechy tape. Ted walked over and peered into one of the unsealed boxes.

“Are you taking anything?” he asked.

Justin decided to lie about the t-shirt. “No,” he replied.

Ted nodded. “Good. That makes our lives a lot easier. Michael sent us over here to ‘supervise,’” he said, using finger quotation marks.

Justin bristled. “Well, feel free to tell him he needn’t worry,” he said . . . but then he remembered. He’d walked out on Brian. Michael had not. As of the moment when Justin took Ethan’s hand, he’d forfeited his right to Brian and everything involving Brian.

He got down on his knees and started filling the last box with Styrofoam peanuts. Emmett walked over and knelt beside him, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“If you ever need to talk, I’m here,” he said. “I mean that.”

A lump formed in Justin’s throat, strangling him and cutting off his voice. He could only nod his thanks. Ted walked over to the windows and stood quietly looking out.

“I’ll help you carry this stuff to your car,” Emmett said, picking up a box. Justin waited for the expected joke about how many dildos the box contained and whether they were made of cement, but it didn’t come.

It took two trips but finally all that was left to carry down to the car was his duffle bag. Meanwhile, Ted hadn’t moved. Justin thought he wasn’t going to say anything, but then, just as Justin was walking out the door for the last time, Ted turned around.

“Don’t you want to know?” he asked.

“Teddy,” Emmett said. “Why?”

“I’m just asking if he wants to know,” Ted replied evenly. “Do you?”

Justin remembers standing in the doorway for almost as long as Ted had stood by the windows.

“No,” Daphne whispered. “Please, Just. Let’s please go.”

“Yes,” he finally said, his voice steadier than he would have imagined it could be. “I want to know.”

Ted nodded and walked to the kitchen where he opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of beer. The three of them watched as he searched for an opener. Justin knew where it was, but for some reason he couldn’t pinpoint, he didn’t say anything. When Ted finally found what he was looking for, he opened the beer, took an un-Ted-like swig and leaned against the counter.

“You left,” he said, looking down at his feet. “Shortly afterwards – I’d say maybe five minutes, maybe less – Brian left without saying anything to anyone. Michael followed him. Em and I weren’t sure what to do. Michael might need us, but Brian might feel like a caged animal if we were around. You know how he gets sometimes.”

Justin swallowed as an image of Brian as a wild animal tamed by his whip flitted through his mind again.

“Anyway, Em and I were getting our jackets and still debating what to do when we heard a crash. Our first thought was of Michael, that maybe he’d gotten hit by a car or something running after Brian. We ran outside, and that’s when we saw Brian’s Jeep – or rather what was left of it. We kind of froze, both of us, but then we heard Michael screaming for someone to call 911. So, I got out my phone. Meanwhile, people are started to come out and crowd around. Em and I tried our best to give Brian space, but it was hard. Then Deb and Lindsay were there, and there was a lot of screaming and yelling. God, it was a fucking nightmare. Mel took over trying to keep the crowd back, and I went to see how . . . if Brian . . . how he was. I thought he was dead. There was blood everywhere, but then the EMTs arrived and said he still had a pulse. Michael rode in the ambulance, and I drove Deb and Lindsay to the hospital . . . oh right, sorry. Yeah, Em was with me too. When we arrived there was a lot of commotion. We sat around in the waiting area for what felt like hours . . .”

“And no one called me,” Justin said.

Ted and Emmett just looked at him.

“Honey,” Em said gently. “We . . . no one wanted to bother you.”

Justin remembers a tsunami of anger smashing into him, threatening to rip him apart and strew his limbs all over the loft in a tide of unbearable grief. Bother him? _Bother him_! He dropped his duffle bag and ran to the kitchen, shoving Ted out of the way. 

“Justin!” Daphne cried when he started wrenching open cabinets and smashing every breakable thing he could get his hands on.

“How could anyone have thought that hearing Brian was dying would ‘bother me’?” he shouted. “How? Please tell me because I don’t understand. Brian was my _boyfriend_!”

“The operative word in that sentence being _‘was,’_ ” Ted shouted back. “Excuse us if you weren’t at the top of our list of concerns.”

“Teddy . . .” Emmett said, trying to place a calming hand on Ted’s shoulder, but Ted shook it off.

“A lot of people are going to tell you that what happened wasn’t your fault,” Ted said, “and it wasn’t. Brian is dead because he drove too fast out of the parking lot without putting on his seatbelt and was hit by a drunk driver. That is why he is dead and our best friend’s life is ruined. But you – you have _no_ right to be yelling at us and smashing Brian’s stuff. You cheated on him, lied to him, and then you left him in front of everyone at a party _he_ threw for you. He must’ve done something truly horrible for you to do something _so_ thoughtless, _so_ cruel. It’s the only explanation . . . either that or you’re a little shit who didn’t deserve to be considered last night, let alone called. Fuck!”

Ted threw his beer in the sink and practically ran to the door and down the stairs. Emmett stood still, frozen, unable to decide who might need him the most.

“Go,” Justin said brokenly. “He’s your boyfriend . . . and on top of that, he’s right.”

“He is _not_ right,” Emmett said. “He’s just sad and exhausted and scared to death for Michael. You didn’t deserve that. I don’t know why we didn’t call you. I honestly don’t. There was a lot going on all at the same time, and then we got the news that Brian had died on the way to the hospital. After that, we were all focused on Lindsay who fell completely apart. Thank God, Mel was there.”

“So, everyone was there, except me,” Justin said, his voice dull and flat. “Michael was there. Ben was there. Deb was there. You and Ted were there. Lindsay and Mel were there. Didn’t anyone think that I should’ve been there, too?”

He remembers starting to shake and having to sit down on the floor amidst the shards of his destruction.

“Did . . . did he say anything?” he asked. 

Emmett shook his head. “Michael said he was trying, but he couldn’t.”

Daphne walked over and swept aside the broken glass so that she could sit down beside him and take his hand.

He nodded. He remembers that part of him was relieved. He was not at all sure he wanted to know what Brian was trying to say. Either it would’ve been about him or it wouldn’t. Knowing either would be devastating.

“I’m . . . I should really go see how Teddy’s doing,” Emmett said. “Are you going to be okay?”

Justin laughed weakly because, really, Emmett couldn’t have asked a stupider question. “No, but go anyway,” he said.

Emmett walked over and squeezed his shoulder.

“Take good care of him,” he said to Daphne. “Brian would want that.”

“I will,” Daphne told him.

Emmett leaned over and kissed her cheek.

“Good-bye, baby,” he said to Justin.

And then he was gone.


	2. A Modern Day Ophelia

Justin was in no shape to be alone that night, so Daphne stayed with him. They’d been attached at the hip pretty much since the first moment that Justin had gotten the news about Brian. Justin couldn’t even bear to be alone when he was in the bathroom, so he kept the door open while she sat outside in the hall. He was dreading the inevitability that, at some point in the not-too-distant future, she was going to need to return to her own life. She had finals coming up, and even though she tried to tell everyone that she could be with Justin and study at the same time, they all knew it wasn’t true. Justin had started crying as they unloaded the boxes from the car and put them in his mom’s basement, and he hadn’t been able to stop. After having been at Brian’s loft, Daphne was almost as beside herself as he was. Studying anatomy was out of the question.

He remembers that dinner that night was late and took place in the living room with the T.V. tuned to a mindless reality show about housewives or something. Brian had hated reality T.V. with a passion. Justin hadn’t cared; he wasn’t crazy about it either. They hadn’t watched T.V. much – both preferred movies – but when they did it was usually 70’s and 80’s reruns. Justin used to tease him about it, saying his age was showing. Brian would glare at him and make some remark about “kids these days.”

Justin choked down a slice of pepperoni pizza and tried to think of none of these things. Any memory of Brian drove an icy spike into his heart. It literally hurt. And he couldn’t get Emmett’s words out of his head: _We didn’t want to bother you._ He still couldn’t understand how anyone could think that, let alone people he considered friends. Michael he understood, but Deb? Lindsay? Hell, even Melanie? Did no one stop to think about what not calling him might mean? What it might do to him? At the very least, he might’ve been able to see Brian. Surely, the doctors would’ve let him see Brian, right? They probably let Michael see him . . .

“Just,” Molly said. “Can I have your other slice, please?”

He looked at her. Ordinarily, she would’ve stolen it without asking. He wanted to tell her not to be so careful and polite – he wanted to tell them _all_ to treat him like they usually did – but he knew his mom had coached her, and telling her to act like her regular bratty self would just confuse her.

“Sure,” he said. “But the pepperoni is going to give you gas.”

She looked confused for a moment, totally unsure how she should respond. Finally, her face broke into a grin.

“No, it’s not!” she said.

“Yes, it is,” he replied.

“No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not, stupid.”

“Yes, it is, stupider.”

“No, it’s not, stupidest.”

Justin would’ve been fine if all he did for the rest of the evening was razz his sister, but no such luck. For some reason, his and Molly’s everyday banter set their mom off. She unexpectedly started crying and went upstairs. They were left staring at each other in her wake. Then, of course, Molly started to cry and then Justin and then Daphne. It turned into a fucking nightmarish crying free-for-all.

Daphne stayed with him overnight, and they lay in his childhood bed, both of them trying with limited success to get a bit of sleep. Justin had called Ethan after dinner and told him he wouldn’t be coming over. Ethan asked if Justin would like him to stop by, and Justin had told him no. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Ethan . . . it was just that it felt wrong. His heart was full with thoughts of Brian. Having Ethan around would make him feel like he was cheating on Brian all over again, and he couldn’t bear that.

“You realize that you two are probably going to break up,” Daphne said, resting her hand on his cheek and stroking his cheekbone with her thumb – a gesture that reminded him of Brian. Brian used to touch him that way.

“Yeah, I know,” he replied. “It’s okay.”

“That means you’ll be on your own.”

“Maybe that’s not such a bad thing.”

“Maybe not. But I’ll worry about you.”

He smiled. 

“I’ll be okay,” he said. “It’ll take a little while, but I’m going to survive this.”

“It’s what Brian would want.”

“I know.”

They had the window open, and outside it was starting to rain; he could hear the heavy drops plopping against the screen and the swishing sound of tires on wet pavement as some cul-de-sac neighbor pulled into their driveway.

“Do you want to talk about him?” she asked. “Brian, I mean?”

He shook his head. It was too soon.

“Do you mind if I do?”

He thought for a moment. He didn’t feel ready, but then again would he ever?

“I guess not,” he said

“Tell me if you want me to stop.”

He nodded. She took his hand.

“I remember the first time I saw him. You took me to Babylon and pointed him out. I remember thinking he was kind of skinny, at least compared to all the muscle heads surrounding him. I also remember thinking he was gorgeous . . . well, not ‘gorgeous’ exactly, more like ‘beautiful.’ He looked weirdly out of place. I can’t really explain what I mean. Maybe it’s because he had a shirt on and most of the other guys didn’t. I watched you walk up to him. Do you remember that?”

“How could I forget? I was petrified.”

“You started dancing, and those two guys he’d picked up started dancing with you. Brian kind of shooed them away so he could have you to himself. You should’ve seen how full of yourself you looked . . . okay, not so much ‘full of yourself’ . . . I guess what I mean is that you looked confident – like he belonged to you. He kissed you and picked you up. You were both laughing. That’s when I realized you were probably going home with him, so I kind of interrupted you guys and told you I was leaving. Neither of you even looked at me, which, hey, I was okay with that. After all, that’s why we’d gone to Babylon in the first place, so you could be with him again. I gave you your shirt back, and Brian buttoned it. It was totally sweet.”

Justin remembers smiling at the memory even though his heart broke around it like a wave against a rock. Nearby, across the hall, he could hear his mom’s muffled voice. He wondered who she was calling so late, but then, when she heard her tone sharpen, he realized it was probably his dad. Christ. What the hell was she calling him for? He hated Brian.

But then again, the feeling had been mutual.

Justin closed his eyes. God, he wanted to sleep, but the prospect of waking up and having to realize all over again that Brian was dead was terrifying.

“Do you believe in heaven?” he asked.

She sighed. “You already know the answer to that question,” she said.

“I know. But now that someone you knew is dead, do you feel differently?”

“Do you?” she asked, turning the question back to him.

He thought for a while. Not too long ago, he’d believed in heaven, but then he’d met Brian who thought the whole concept was a crock of shit. Then the bashing happened, and Justin had started thinking it was a crock of shit, too. But part of him had never stopped believing. Now he wanted that part to take over – to convince him that Brian wasn’t simply _gone_.

“I want to,” he said.

He more felt her nod than saw it. His mom had turned off the hallway light.

“Brian isn’t where his body is,” she said gently.

He squeezed his eyes closed against the welling tears. He knew she was trying to make him feel better – to soothe away any thought he might be having about Brian lying on a cold slab in some cooler somewhere – but her words had inadvertently broken his heart. The thought of Brian – beautiful, sensual Brian – severed from his body was unbearable. With most people, it was easy to imagine the spirit and the body being two totally different things, the former superior to the latter, but it was different with Brian. The two had been one and the same. Tame his body and you tame his soul. And tame his body, Justin had indeed. From that time in New York onwards, Justin held the keys to Brian’s desire. It was always kind of amusing that Brian thought _he_ was the one in control when he so obviously wasn’t. Justin didn’t know how he’d done it – it would forever be a mystery to him – but he’d somehow wrested Brian’s secrets from the death-grip of his soul, and his knowledge of those secrets played out night after night in their bed.

When Brian had said “touch me,” he’d meant “be present with me.”

When he’d said “kiss me,” he’d meant “talk to me.”

When he’d said “suck me,” he’d meant “take me.”

When he’d said “fuck me,” he’d meant “love me.”

 _He doesn’t love me_ – his words to Michael suddenly invaded his memory – _He loves to fuck me._

He sat bolt upright, startling Daphne.

Now that . . . _that_ . . . was more than he could bear.

He threw aside the duvet and grabbed his jeans. He had to get out. He had to run. He had to outrun the memory of those words. Maybe if he ran fast enough, hard enough, far enough he could escape. Maybe not, but he had to try. He _had_ to.

“Mrs. Taylor!” Daphne cried.

He heard her and his mom’s voices, but they were already in the distance. Yes, his feet were bare, but he couldn’t feel the gritty pavement. All he could feel was his horror. How, _how_ had he let this happen? 

When he inevitably tripped and fell to his knees, he didn’t bother getting up again. At the end of the day, you can’t outrun grief. You can merely endure it. Or not. Those were the only two choices. He covered his face with his hands and leaned forward until his forehead touched the road, and that’s how his mom and Daphne found him. A penitent, the blood from his torn knees mingling with the fallen rain.

* * * * * * * *

“Hold onto this, okay, honey?”

Justin took the casserole his mom handed him and cautiously lowered himself into the passenger seat like an old man with bad joints. He ached all over. It was late morning, and they were going to Mel and Lind’s place. Debbie had called to say that she and Michael had just left, so it would be a good time for them to visit. Justin wasn’t so sure. He had no idea how Lindsay would react when she saw him. She might tell him to get the fuck out of her house. If she did, he’d deserve it, but that didn't mean he could bear it.

A bunch of small birds that’d been bathing in a puddle scattered as their car drove past. There was still rain in the clumped autumn grass. Justin remembers hoping that this would be the year things never turned green, because how could there be a spring in a world without Brian in it?

It was just him and his mom in the car. They’d all decided over breakfast that it was time for Daphne to go home. As a pre-med student, she couldn’t afford to fall behind. Plus final exams were coming up, and she needed to study. 

Justin remembers, despite the distance, how short the car ride to Mel and Linds’ seemed. Landmarks hurdled past – the grocery store, the park, the municipal pool. He knew he should see them. It was the right thing to do, but he dreaded it with every fiber of his being. Debbie had warned them that Lindsay was a wreck. Justin didn’t know if he could bear being around her. He was feeling little better than a wreck, himself.

When they arrived, they noticed the street was already lined with cars. They had to park nearly a block away. For a moment, he had the stomach-sinking thought that there was some kind of wake going on and no one had told him, but then he remembered his conversation with Emmett. He was sure that neither he nor Deb would neglect to call him this time.

They walked slowly up the path and then up the stairs festooned with baskets of pansies. Unsurprisingly, it was Mel who answered the door. She was dressed in black, which startled Justin so much that he almost dropped the casserole. She smiled the most wobbly, uncertain smile that Justin had ever seen and accepted the casserole when he handed it to her.

“It’s just potatoes au gratin with ham and green beans,” Justin’s mom said apologetically.

Mel smiled that wobbly smile again. “I’m sure it’s delicious,” she said. “Thank you. Please, come in. You can hang your jackets here.”

“I wanted to make something that would freeze well,” Justin’s mom continued. “You probably are getting a million casseroles and what-not. More than an army can eat in a month, I bet. I’d advise covering it with tin foil rather than plastic wrap; there will be less condensation and a lower chance of freezer burn . . .”

Justin took her hand and squeezed it. She immediately fell quiet.

They stood awkwardly in the entry way, shuffling their feet,while Mel went to the living room to tell Lindsay they were there. Justin could hear voices – none of which he recognized – talking about gardening, pre-schools, and the reliability of Subarus versus Honda’s SUV.

“Justin and his mom are here,” he heard Mel say. “Should they come in?”

He didn’t hear the response, but Mel came out and told them to go in.

“Brace yourselves,” she whispered.

Sure enough. Debbie hadn’t been exaggerating. Lindsay was a mess. She was wearing a coffee-stained bathrobe, and her hair was sticking up in all directions. Her nose was red, and her eyes were mere puffy slits. There were three empty Kleenex boxes on the coffee table. Justin wished he hadn’t come to see her. What would she make of the fact that he was freshly showered and dressed in normal clothes?

“Hey,” he said.

She just looked at him as though she’d never seen him before in her life.

“Uhm, this is my mom. I don’t know if . . .”

“We’ve met,” Lindsay said, her voice so raw it was almost recognizable.

“Oh, right. Of course. I forgot.”

“Can I get you anything?” Mel asked. “There’s some coffee brewed and Maya brought over cinnamon rolls. They’re quite good. You should try one.”

Justin swallowed back a mouthful of bile. He could no more eat a cinnamon roll than fly to the moon.

“No thank you,” his mom said. “We’ve already had breakfast, although I will take a cup of tea if you have it. Justin, honey, do you want anything?”

Everyone in the whole fucking room turned to look at him.

He cleared his throat.

“No, thanks,” he croaked.

“Please,” Mel said, fetching chairs from the dining room table. “Sit down.”

He and his mom lowered themselves gingerly onto the cushions as if they were full of pins. Justin remembers suspecting that neither of them had ever felt so uncomfortable in their lives. All the people in the room had stopped talking and were looking at them.

“Everyone, this is Justin and Jennifer Taylor,” Mel said. “Justin is Brian’s . . . I mean was Brian’s, oh shit . . .”

Everyone just kept looking at them. Finally Lindsay broke the silence.

“My, Justin,” she said primly. “You look quite well this morning.”

Everyone’s heads swiveled to look at her as though their movements had been choreographed. 

“Jesus Christ, Linds,” Mel said angrily. “Really? Is this how this visit’s going to go, because if it is, let’s all spare each other the pain and end it now.”

Lindsay turned her head very slowly to look at her.

“I can’t compliment my guest?” she said.

“Oh. My. God,” Mel said. “Oh my God. How on earth do you think this helps the situation?”

“The situation,” Lindsay said evenly. “Interesting choice of words. Brian’s death is ‘a situation.’”

Justin flinched. He couldn’t help it. In a million years he could never have imagined that Lindsay Peterson could be so frank in front of a roomful of people.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Lindsay said. “Did I just make you feel uncomfortable? You have to pardon me. I haven’t slept in a very _very_ long time. I’m afraid a lack of sleep isn’t conducive to gracious hospitality.”

Justin’s mom grabbed his hand and squeezed it tight.

“Alright,” Mel said. “That’s it. Visit over.”

Justin’s mom didn’t need to be told twice; she practically shot out of her chair, dragging Justin with her. 

“Wait!” he said, pulling his hand free from her grasp. “Wait. Please, wait. Lindsay . . . I am so _so_ sorry . . .”

Lindsay’s face turned pink. “You’re sorry?” she said, clutching the collar of her robe. “You’re _sorry_? Well, ‘sorry’ isn’t enough. It will _never_ be enough.”

“Lindsay!” Mel cried. 

“No, no let me finish,” Lindsay said. “I’m sorry I shouted. I’ll stop shouting, but before Justin walks out of my house, he’s going to know that I consider Brian’s death _his_ fault. Fuck the drunk driver. It was _you_ ” – she pointed at Justin – “it was _you_ who killed Brian. You kissed some . . . some guy . . . right there – _right there_ , Justin, and then you walked out. You just walked away from someone who’d given you _so_ much – someone you’d shaped into your idea of a boyfriend, someone who, in the end, turned out not to be good enough for you.”

There was collective gasp that seemed to suck all the air from the room.

“That’s bullshit, Linds, and you know it,” Mel said. “I’m sorry to be so frank, but this has to end, and it has to end now. You are _all_ grief-stricken. You should be helping each other, not blaming each other. Brian’s death is _not_ Justin’s fault. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Brian’s himself. You heard what the police said. He must’ve pulled out of the parking lot without looking.”

“Oh, I see,” Lindsay said, her voice arctic-cold. “This is all Brian’s fault. Well, he paid for it alright.”

This had to end right now. He’d imagined the visit would be uncomfortable – maybe even painful – but he hadn’t expected it to be as terrible as it was. He took a deep breath and looked Lindsay straight in the eyes.

“You’re right,” he said, calmly, steadily. “Brian’s death _is_ my fault. He would never have left that party if I hadn’t walked out on him. He wouldn’t have gone peeling out of the parking lot without looking or putting on his seatbelt. He wouldn’t have been hit by that other driver. He wouldn’t be fucking _dead_ except for me – except for my actions. So, you’re right. Brian’s blood is on _my_ hands. Believe me, I am fucking _paying_ for it. It might not look that way, but I am, just as much as you and everyone else. Brian was my _boyfriend_. I lived with him. I loved him. We shared a bed together every fucking night. My life is as ruined as yours is. So, go ahead and blame me – I blame myself, too – but don’t you _dare_ imply that my heart isn’t broken.”

There. He’d said it. He’d said it out loud. He was guilty, not only for Brian’s death, but for letting Brian fall in love with him in the first place. He covered his face and dropped to the floor, shoving away everyone who tried to comfort him . . .

. . . except Lindsay.

She’d slid of the couch and literally crawled over to him on her hands and knees.

“God forgive me,” she said taking him in her arms.

Justin remembers thinking that he couldn’t be more shocked by her reference to God than if she’d said “motherfucker” or something equally jarring.

They knelt, racked by grief, holding on to each other while one by one everyone left the room.

“Pray with me,” Lindsay said after they were all gone.

“God in heaven,” she whispered. “Help us help each other. Take away the anger, the blame. Give me strength.”

She started rocking him as though he was a baby she was trying to soothe.

“Give us all strength, dear Lord. But most of all, take Brian to you. Don’t turn him away.”

She slid her fingers into his hair and clenched her fist. It hurt. It hurt like hell.

“Linds,” he said. “You . . . you need to get some sleep.”

She shook her head violently. “No, no. I can’t. Not until we bury him. I need to stay awake. I need to be there for him.”

The laugh that accompanied her words sounded more than just a little unhinged. 

“Do you remember that day he came by when you were here? You were showing me your drawings, and there was one of him sleeping. Remember? Mel got all bent out of shape that he was circumcised.”

She laughed as though she’d just told a side-splitting joke. Justin remembers looking over Lindsay’s shoulder and seeing Mel walk in from the kitchen. They traded helpless glances.

“He really loved you,” Lindsay babbled on. “You know that, right? I know that . . . that at the end, you thought he didn’t love you, and I don’t blame you. I mean the way he treated your birthday, and then the whole hustler thing. Did he tell you I yelled at him about that? And then there was Vermont, the way he cancelled on you with no explanation . . .”

“Linds,” he said firmly. “I don’t want to talk about those things.”

She fell silent, and he remembered thinking she was going to start yelling at him again, but she didn’t. Instead she started humming some 80’s song Justin vaguely recognized but whose words he couldn’t recall.

“Our modern day Ophelia,” Mel whispered, kneeling down and gently trying to pry Lindsay off him as though he was a rock and she was a barnacle.

“Oh yes!” Lindsay said. “Ophelia. Brian and I took a Shakespeare class together. Did you know that? What was it that Ophelia sings . . . ‘He is dead and gone, lady. He is dead and gone. At his head a grass-green turf. At his heels a stone . . .’”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Mel said under her breath. “Justin, can you please help me. Go upstairs. There’s some Ambien in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Get me one . . . no, make that two, and a glass of water.”

Justin nodded, and as soon as Mel extracted him from Lindsay’s embrace, he ran up the stairs. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have supported the idea of sedating someone too out of it to know what was going on, but the situation in the living room was pretty much the definition of a train wreck.

When he reached the top of the stairs, he headed straight for the bathroom, but then he stopped. There was a woman’s voice and the sound of a fussing toddler coming from the bedroom.

Gus.

He closed his eyes, feeling an odd sense of helplessness. Gus. It'd only been a matter of time. He’d hoped Gus was at a babysitter’s house. He wasn’t ready to see Brian’s son, but then again would he ever be? Now was as good a time as any. Gus clearly needed help calming himself down. His fussing was rapidly turning into screeches. The last thing in the world anyone wanted was for Lindsay to come upstairs and try to comfort him. Her presence would have the opposite effect. Even if she managed not to look and act crazy (a possibility that was highly unlikely) Gus would sense something was wrong – very wrong.

He tiptoed to the door. A woman was sitting on the bed. Gus was in her arms, and she was trying to him to calm him. He was red-faced, his cheeks wet with tears.

Justin swallowed. Hearing Gus had been bad enough; seeing him was even worse. He was Brian in miniature form. He couldn’t do it. He should go back downstairs, but then again who was better suited in the situation than him? Unlike the woman trying to soothe Gus, Justin wasn’t a stranger. He took a deep breath and knocked softly on the door. The woman turned around. Justin recognized her from Lindsay’s tea-party-turned-rave, but he couldn’t recall her name. Maybe he’d never learned it in the first place.

She stood with a startled look on her face, but when she saw him, her expression changed into one of distress.

“Oh my God,” she said. “I am so _so_ sorry for your loss.”

She must remember Brian and me, he thought. She remembers Brian and I were boyfriends.

“Thanks,” he said roughly. Besides from Ethan and Daphne, she was the first person to offer him condolences. It made his eyes well with tears – but in a good way. It helped to be recognized as Brian’s partner. It helped ease the pain if only very slightly.

“He was . . . Well, I really didn’t know him, “she said. "But Lindsay was always talking about him though, so I kind of feel like I did.”

Justin smiled through his tears. God only knows what kind of colorful stories she’d heard.

“He was very beautiful,” she continued. “I liked his eyes. His son has his eyes, do your know that? Sorry, that was a stupid question. Of course, you do.”

Justin walked into the room and sat down on the bed.

“I can probably get him to calm down,” he said. “I used to babysit him sometimes.”

The woman looked relieved. 

“Thank you,” she said gratefully. “I know absolutely nothing about babies. I feel like a total moron around them.”

Justin smiled again when she handed Gus over to him. “They take practice,” he said. “I have a sister who’s much younger than me, so I got a lot of experience taking care of kids while I was growing up – not that I was crazy about it at the time, but then my friend Daphne and I started a babysitting business when we were fifteen, and I realized taking care of kids can be kinda fun.”

“I bet you were in high demand,” she said.

“We were,” he replied.

He turned his attention to Gus. “Hey, little man,” he said. “What’s all this fuss? You’re probably hungry, huh? How about some Cheerios? Would that be good?”

Gus stopped crying when he saw he was no longer solely in the care of a stranger. The woman fished around in a tote bag and pulled out a Zip Lock bag with Cheerios in it. When Justin opened it, Gus plunged his pudgy fist inside and pulled out an impressive handful. Justin watched him while he ate and looked around the room. It was devoid of toys. The poor little boy was probably bored out of his mind.

“When was the last time someone took him outside?” he asked the woman, and she shrugged.

“I have no idea. I just took over from someone else. She didn’t say what I should do with him except try to get him to sleep. As you can see, that hasn’t happened.”

Justin put a squirmy Gus down and took his hands. 

“How about we go to the backyard?” he said. “You can play on the swings for a bit. Does that sound good?”

Gus just looked at him with his big hazel eyes.

“I’ll take that as a ‘yes,’” he said. “But let’s first get your mom some sleeping pills, shall we?”

“Sleeping pills?” the woman said. “Oh, thank _God_.”

“It’s been bad?” Justin asked although he was pretty sure he already knew the answer.

“You have _no_ idea,” she said.

“Well, she thinks she’s Ophelia,” he said, “so I think I can imagine what the past couple days have been like.”

“She’s a mess. We’re all really worried about her.”

“You’re good friends. She’s lucky to have you.”

“She’s even luckier now that you’re here. Can I help with anything?”

“Yeah, how about you take Gus outside. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

She nodded and picked up Gus who squawked for a moment but calmed down when Justin assured him they’d play soon.

In the bathroom, he found the Ambien as well as some Advil and something in a pharmacy bottle whose name he didn’t recognize. He got two Ambien and then hid all three medicines between the bath towels. He didn’t actually think Lindsay wanted to kill herself, but in the state she was in, she might try to. Better safe than sorry.

When he got downstairs, he saw that Mel and his mom had managed to get Lindsay off the floor and back onto the couch. They were talking to her soothingly, gently changing the subject – or at least trying to – whenever she started talking about Brian. Justin went to the kitchen and got a glass of water, which he handed to Mel along with the pills. Mel quickly and without preamble gave the glass and pills to Lindsay and simply said, “take these, honey.”

Everyone in the room breathed long, audible sighs of relief when Lindsay did as she was told without protest. Justin was pretty sure she didn’t even know what she was doing. He felt another twinge of momentary guilt, but then realized it was better this way. Lindsay desperately needed to rest. She had a child to think of. In this particular instance, the end justified the means.

He waited around until Lindsay lay down and her eyes drifted shut; then, while his mom went to the kitchen to impose some order on the stacks of dishes and piles of easy-to-prepare meals, Justin and Mel went out to the backyard to play with Gus.

“How you holding up,” she asked as Justin helped Gus get in his swing.

He didn’t reply right away because he wasn’t sure what to say. If she meant whether he slept last night, well, yes he did. After he returned to his mom’s condo and cleaned up his torn knees, he was so exhausted he couldn’t help but fall asleep. But if she meant how did he feel when he’d woken up, he’d tell her he’d wished he was dead.

“Depends,” he said.

She nodded. “Yeah. Got it.”

He looked at Gus, his soft brown hair blowing in the wind and his little hands grasping the swing’s chains. 

“You’re going to tell him about Brian,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course . . . Justin, _of course_. How could you think otherwise?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. You didn’t like him. Lindsay might need to forget . . .”

Mel grabbed his hand and squeezed it. Hard.

“I _did_ like him,” she said fiercely, almost angrily. “It’s just that . . . it’s just that he made liking him difficult sometimes. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t think of him as a friend. I did. We, well, we were more alike than I cared to admit. Not his assholeness . . . oh shit . . . sorry . . .”

Justin smiled and gave her hand a squeeze in return. 

“There’s no need to whitewash the past,” he said. “Brian would think it was lame.”

“Yeah, he probably would, wouldn’t he?”

Gus suddenly made it clear he didn’t think he was going high enough in his swing.

“Push!” he yelled at them.

Both he and Mel laughed.

“He’s definitely Brian’s son,” she said.

“You’re going to have to work extra hard to get him to say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”

They didn’t speak for a while, but the quiet was filled with Gus’s happy shrieks. Justin remembers thinking that it would make Brian feel good to know his son was having fun. He’d rarely mentioned it, but Justin knew Brian had had a rough childhood. He’d probably had more bad memories than good ones.

The sunlight was bright but without warmth. Last night’s rain had ushered in a cold front. Justin remembers thinking that he should have worn his parka, but then he'd remembered it was packed away in one of the boxes in his mom’s basement.

A corrosive sadness filled him.

“When does it get better?” he said, hoping Mel would know what he was talking about because he didn’t want to have to explain.

“I lost my dad when I was in high school,” she said. “It never really does get better, but things slowly start getting easier to live with. I know Gus will help Lindsay. You can’t disappear into your grief when you’ve got a child to care for. Speaking of which, I think it would be really great if you saw Gus regularly. It would be good for him, and it would be good for you.”

Justin winced. He was having a hard time looking at Gus for longer than a few seconds. There was so much of Brian in him. Even his expressions were Brian’s. 

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know if I could handle it. He’s a mini Brian.”

“Someday that will be a good thing,” she said. “That he looks so much like Brian, I mean.”

He felt tears fill his eyes. She looked at him with a questioning frown.

“Okay?” she asked.

He shook his head. 

“It will never be a good thing,” he said despairingly. “Mel, Lindsay was right. I’m responsible for Brian’s death. Every time I’d look at Gus I’d think about how I took his father from him.”

“Sweetie,” she said, reaching out to cup his cheek. “Justin, honey. I’m going to say something with nothing but love in my heart: shut the fuck up.”

“Fuck up!” Gus said with glee.

Justin couldn’t help but laugh, and not just because of Gus. Mel had said she’d been able to see herself in Brian. Her words had just made it obvious why.

“Is it making you feel better to believe you’re at fault?” she asked. “Is it bringing you peace?”

He shook his head.

“Is it bringing you solace? Is it comforting the people around you?”

He shook his head again.

“Then, excuse my French, why the fuck are you doing it? If it serves no purpose than to make you feel even more miserable than you already are, why do it?”

“Because it’s true!” he said angrily. “It’s true, Mel. Why are you asking me to deny the truth?”

“The truth?” she said just as angrily. “I’m going to put on my lawyer’s hat for a moment. There’s something called the ‘Law of Causation.’ It’s the rule that governs liability cases. Basically, it determines fault. If you were facing a law suit in Brian’s death, you would be absolved by any jury. Why? Because a drunk driver killed Brian. But for being struck by a drunk driver, Brian would be alive. So, let’s say that he did leave the party after you did, but say he’d also paused to light a cigarette. That one, little pause would’ve saved his life. Justin, what I’m trying to say is that life involves chance. Sometimes chance is in our favor, and sometimes it’s against us. It was sheer _chance_ that killed Brian. Not you for leaving. Not Ethan for showing up. Not Brian for having forced you into the arms of another man in the first place. It was chance, Justin. It was bad fucking luck.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat.

“Why doesn’t that make me feel any better?” he asked.

“Because you’re grieving, and now you’re angry at chance – maybe even God if you believe in Him in the first place. Being angry at the universe is harder than being angry at yourself. You can’t make the universe feel like shit, but you sure as hell can make yourself feel like shit. Stop it.” 

He took a deep breath and released it. He wasn’t sure he was ready to know the answer to the question he was about to ask.

“Michael . . . is he . . . ?”

“Okay?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s doing better than you probably think he is. Certainly better than Linds, although that’s a pretty low bar. You should contact him, actually. He’s starting to deal with all of Brian affairs and planning the funeral and what-not.”

“Has . . . has he mentioned me at all?”

“Only to ask if I knew how you were doing.”

Justin shook his head. Was it true, or was she lying to spare his feelings? But then he remembered who he was talking to. Mel was almost as frank about things as Brian had been.

“I’m afraid to see him,” he said. “I’m afraid of what he might say. I don’t know . . . Linds’ accusation was almost too much . . . I don’t know if I can go through that again.”

“I’m not sure he’d do what Linds did, but just to make sure, you should have other people with you. Definitely Ben, but maybe Deb, too. I don’t know if she’d _actually_ smack him if he got out of line, but she’d do the verbal equivalent. She loves you, Justin. Just as much as she loved Brian.”

He could only nod. The conversation had exhausted him. He must look terrible because Mel told him he should go home and get some rest.

“You look positively grey,” she said.

“I feel grey,” he replied.

He stopped Gus’s swing and knelt down in front of him, looking into Brian’s eyes. He remembers feeling a presence, a presence he’s felt on and off ever since that moment. For the first time since his mom had told him Brian was dead, he felt an odd sense of peace. It wasn’t enough to unclench his heart or cause him to forget, even for an instant, that the man he loved was dead, but it felt good all the same. It felt like dipping your feet in a cold stream on a hot day, like falling asleep to the sound of distant thunder.

“Gus,” he said. “Your mommies are feeling sad. Can you make them smile?”

Gus looked up at Mel, and she made an exaggerated clownish sad face and then turned it into a sunny grin. He laughed.

“Will you do that for me?” Justin asked. “I know you can.”

Gus reached out and grabbed his nose, barely missing poking his eye out.

“Daddy,” he said.

For a second, Justin thought Gus was talking to him, and his heart broke, but then he realized Gus was looking over his shoulder.

“Daddy,” Gus said again and laughed.


	3. Michael's Secret

Whereas the drive to Mel and Linds’ had felt too short, the drive back to his mom’s condo took _forever_. Every traffic light was red. Every pedestrian was a little, old lady with a walker. He was exhausted. He was so exhausted, in fact, that he realized he’d never actually felt truly exhausted before. Tired, yes, but not _exhausted_ , not worn down to the bone.

When they _finally_ arrived at the condo, he went straight upstairs to his room and got Brian’s t-shirt out of his duffle bag. He laid it on his pillow and then got into bed with all his clothes on, unable to escape the the draining chill of sadness. He was hoping that having Brian’s scent near him would help him sleep, and he was right. It took only a few minutes for his eyes to close and only a few more before he started to lose himself in a dream. Unsurprisingly, it was about Brian. They were at home and Justin was trying to make an Alfredo sauce, but he kept burning it and having to start over. Brian was at his computer, it's light casting a halo around his head. He was still wearing his suit pants and button-up shirt, but his silk blood-scarlet tie was loose and draped around his neck. He kept looking up from whatever it was he was doing and laughing every time Justin swore, which was a lot.

“Here,” he finally said. “Let me do it.”

Justin scoffed. “You can’t make an Alfredo sauce to save your life.”

“And you know that how?” Brian asked. “Have you ever seen me try?”

He walked into the kitchen, and took Justin’s place in front of the stove. Justin watched as he unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves to the middle of his forearms. The shells of his bracelet seemed to glow from within with an ethereal light.

“Make yourself useful and pour me a cup of milk,” he said.

Justin laughed at his bossy tone, but did what he requested anyway. 

In reality, Brian had been like a skittish horse in his kitchen, shying at “strange” objects like waffler makers and tealeaf strainers, but in Justin’s dream, he moved with the same grace and confidence that he did everywhere else. There was nothing for Justin to do but stand back and watch as Brian melted the butter and slowly added the flour, pinch by pinch.

“I had no idea you knew how to cook,” Justin said.

“Why the hell would I ruin a good thing by telling you? If you knew I could cook, you might ask me to make something.”

Justin laughed and placed his hand on the back of Brian’s neck, combing his fingers into Brian’s hair and making it stand up in harassed-looking spikes. The strands were as soft as the down beneath a bird's feathers when it spreads its wings to fly.

“So, now that I know you can cook,” he said. “What other hidden talents do you possess that I wasn’t aware of?”

“More than you can count,” Brian replied. “Here, see what I’m doing? You were adding the milk too slowly.”

“Like what talents?” Justin needled.

“Well, let’s see . . . I can sew and iron.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s true.”

“You have never ironed anything in your entire life, let alone sewn something.”

“I didn’t always have the money to afford a tailor and a laundry service – and I sure as hell didn’t have a mother to do any of that shit for me. How do you think I was able to walk the walk? I may have owned only two suits and a half-dozen shirts while I was doing my internship, but they were all flawless. I took better care of my clothes than most people do their cars.”

Justin kissed his cheek. “Vanity, thy name is Kinney,” he teased.

“It didn’t have anything to do with vanity – it had to do with success. Ever heard the phrase ‘fake it till you make it’?”

“No.”

“Figures.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’ve never had to pretend to be something you weren’t in order to make it in life.”

“And I suppose that makes me weak.”

“No. It makes you lucky. Here, try this.”

Brian dipped the wooden spoon in the sauce and handed it to him.

“What do you think?”

“It’s perfect.”

“Of course, it is.”

“You know,” Justin said, hooking his fingers in Brian’s belt buckle and pulling him close. “You’re even hotter when you cook than when you dance.”

Brian snorted. “According to you, that’s not saying much.”

Justin stood on his toes and kissed him softly. Brian’s mouth opened against his, giving Justin a taste of his tongue. Brian made that little sound that signaled dinner could wait. He was just in the process of removing the sauce pan from the burner and turning off the gas when suddenly his cell phone rang. He went to his briefcase and looked at caller ID.

“Shit,” he said. “Look, I gotta go. This can’t wait.”

Justin felt a familiar pang of bitter disappointment.

“You’re always leaving,” he said. “Why can’t you stay for once?”

Brian was pulling on his jacket, but he froze and turned his head so he could look Justin straight in the eyes.

“Don’t talk to _me_ about leaving,” he said.

After he was gone, Justin realized Brian had left his cell phone.

It was one of those moments in a dream – one of those moments when you’re balanced somewhere between two states of consciousness.

 _Don’t look_ , the more awake half of him said. _Don’t look_.

 _Look_ , said the other half. _If you don’t, you’ll never know why he doesn’t come back_.

The latter half won the argument. Justin pressed the recent calls button.

“Hell” was at the top of the list.

* * * * * * * *

Every T.V. in the house was on, and every one was tuned to “Jeopardy.” You could walk from the living room to the kitchen to the bedrooms upstairs and hear nothing but buzzers and Alex Trebek’s voice asking questions like “an epistolary novel is written in the form of these?” and “this British queen outlived her husband by 39 years.”

Justin, Molly, his mom and one of Molly’s friends (Sarah? Dakota? Cassie? Justin couldn’t remember despite having been told at least three times) had just finished eating – or in Justin’s case, choking down – their supper when Ethan called. It was the fourth time that day. 

“You’re going to have to talk to him sometime,” his mom said. “Now isn’t going to be any worse a time than any other.”

Justin nodded. He’d been dreading talking with Ethan – they were going to have to discuss their relationship – but his mom was right. He picked up his ringing phone and went to the kitchen where he could have a little privacy.

“Hey,” he said when he answered.

“Hey,” Ethan replied. “You doing okay?”

“Sure. I mean, yeah. You?”

“Yeah. I guess. As okay as possible. Look, Justin, can I come over?”

Justin took a deep breath and let it go before he answered. He remembers he didn’t want to see Ethan, but he knew he should. He’d made too many mistakes and hurt too many people already. Why add Ethan to the list?

“Alright.”

“What’s your mom’s address?”

“Seventeen Ravenwood Court. The turn’s right across from a shopping plaza with Barnes and Noble in it. There’s a bus stop right there . . . wait, hang on, my mom’s trying to talk to me.”

He covered his phone. “What?” he asked her.

“Tell him to take a cab, and I’ll pay the driver when he arrives.”

He nodded.

“Ethan? My mom just said to take a cab and she’ll pay for it.”

“But if there’s a bus stop right there . . .”

“Just . . . just do it, okay? It’ll make her feel better.”

“Alright. Okay . . . I guess I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay. Call me if there’s trouble finding the address.”

He hung up his phone, carried it back into the dining room and sat back down at his place. He was only halfway done with his stir-fry, but there was no way he’d be able to finish it now. He pushed it around his plate disheartenly. No one spoke - even the girls. Justin was pretty sure they couldn't wait to go upstairs to Molly's room and escape the quiet gloom.

“Do you want us to go out while the two of you talk?” his mom asked. “Molly, Cassie and I can go to Friendly’s for dessert.”

He shook his head. “It’s not going to be a long conversation,” he replied.

“Do you know what you’re going to say?”

“Not a clue.”

She nodded and patted his hand. “Perhaps that’s for the best. Honey, listen, you look really . . . well, you’re not looking your best. Why don’t you go upstairs and take a shower.” 

He remembers nodding automatically, but he wasn’t sure if he wanted to do it or not. Shouldn’t Ethan see him the way he really was? Taking a shower and shaving and brushing his teeth might give Ethan the wrong impression – the impression that he’s okay. He sniffed under his arm. She was right. He stank. Given that he'd woken from his nap drenched in sweat, he wasn’t surprised.

In the end, the issue was moot, though. Even if he’d decided he did want to spruce up a bit, he quickly found that he couldn’t. Instead of refreshing him, his nap had made him feel even worse. He could barely even move from the dining room to the living room where he flopped on the couch and put his face in his hands.

When the doorbell rang, his mom went outside and returned a minute later with Ethan in her wake. Justin looked up when he entered the living room, but he didn’t stand. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to; he just couldn’t find the strength.

His mom took Ethan’s coat and asked him if he wanted a glass of pop or juice – there was a choice of orange or apple. He merely shook his head, his worried gaze never leaving Justin’s face.

“Can I sit down?” he asked uncertainly.

Justin nodded and made room for him on the couch. Ethan was wearing black. He looked like he was in mourning. Justin smiled at him, grateful for the gesture.

“How’s it . . . How are you doing?” Ethan asked. “Or is that just too stupid a question to bother even answering?”

Justin laughed weakly.

They sat in silence for a while. Ethan stared at his hands while Justin stared at him. He didn’t look well. He looked as worn as the Salvation Army sweater he was wearing. He’d even shaved off his little goatee. Justin wanted to ask him why, but he suspected that Ethan probably didn’t even know.

“Are you able to do any drawing?” Ethan asked.

Justin shook his head, but when he realized that Ethan wasn’t going to look up from his hands, he said “no.”

“I’ve been practicing a bit for the recital.”

“How’s that going?”

Ethan merely shrugged.

“Are there any plans yet?” he asked.

“Plans for?”

“I don’t know . . . a funeral or something?”

It was a good question. Justin swallowed. He didn’t know the answer, and he needed to find it out. Soon. He was pretty sure that Michael and Deb were setting things up. Maybe he should call Debbie after Ethan left . . . but then again, what if it was Michael who answered? Justin wasn't at all sure he was ready to talk to him. He sighed, overwhelmed and exhausted by the mere thought.

“I don’t know,” he said.

Ethan looked up with a surprised expression.

“You don’t know? Shouldn’t it be you . . . I mean, you were Brian’s boyfriend. Why aren’t you the one . . . ?”

Justin needed him to stop talking. He reached out and squeezed his hand, hoping Ethan could interpret the meaning behind the gesture.

“Brian and I didn’t . . . Ethan, you know that things between me and Brian weren’t . . . I’m not sure Michael would want me involved.”

Ethan gave his hand a return squeeze but it wasn’t gentle or comforting.

“Who cares?” he said. “Brian would want you involved, and what’s more, you already know that. That's what matters.”

“Maybe, but I’m willing to bet _a lot_ of money that Michael wouldn’t agree.”

“I’m sorry to be so blunt, but who gives a shit if Michael agrees?”

“Everyone probably. Everyone’s on his side – and if they aren’t, then they should be.”

“Excuse me,” Ethan said, his tone almost cutting. “I thought I was talking to Justin Taylor, but clearly I’m not, because the Justin Taylor I know wouldn’t let anyone tell him what to do about anything, let alone something as important as this.”

To say the least, Justin was shocked. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Ethan was wearing his most determined expression - an expression Justin remembered from the intimate moments of their reckless affair, the expression he'd worn when he'd told Justin he was through with sneaking around.

“Listen,” he continued. “Should I call Michael right now? Or are you going to do it? I can, you know. Remember that time you had to use my phone to get in touch with him?”

He stood up to go get his phone out of his coat pocket. Justin leapt up and grabbed his arm.

“Ethan! For God’s sake!" he cried. "Jesus Christ, do _not_ call Michael!”

Ethan whirled around, tearing his arm from Justin’s grasp.

“Then _you_ do it!” he yelled.

“I will!” Justin yelled back.

They stood, glaring at each other, their chests heaving. Justin had suspected things might be ugly, but he would never have foreseen in a million years that Ethan would tell him to confront Michael. What the hell?

“Have you lost your mind?” he asked.

“No, but clearly you’ve lost yours,” Ethan replied. “How are you going to feel when you walk into some funeral parlor and realize that you’ve had _no_ say about _anything_? Brian was your boyfriend! He loved you, and . . . and you loved him, Just.”

He watched Ethan’s eyes fill with tears and felt his heart break.

“It wasn’t your fault,” he said gently.

Ethan dashed away his tears.

“Just fucking call Michael, okay?” he said, his voice breaking. “I’m not leaving until you do.”

They remained standing, but they were no longer glaring at each other. Ethan’s eyes had lost their fleeting spark. It made Justin sad.

“You’ll stay?” he said.

Ethan nodded.

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

“I don’t know . . . what will I say?”

“Don’t think about it, just do it. You’ll psych yourself out is you try to prepare a speech or something.”

Justin took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He remembers thinking there must be something worthwhile about him if he’d managed to capture the love of two of the most amazing men he’d ever met. He went to the kitchen to get his phone. When he returned to the living room, they sat down on the couch. Justin called Michael’s number and took Ethan’s hand, squeezing it hard when Michael answered.

Neither he nor Michael spoke right away. Finally Justin decided he should be the one to break the silence – after all, he’d been the one who made the call. He took a deep breath.

“Michael?” he said.

There was another long silence.

“This is Justin . . .”

“Yeah, I know,” Michael replied acidly. “What do you want?”

Justin swallowed and then took another deep, _deep_ breath.

“I want to know what I can do to help.”

Michael laughed. It was not a pleasant laugh.

“I would say you’ve done more than enough already.”

Justin bit back a blistering response. Hadn’t he foreseen this? 

“Actually, I haven’t,” he said, deliberately ignoring the implication behind Michael’s words. “All I’ve done is go to the loft to get my things. There must be a ton of other stuff to do.”

“Most of it’s already done,” Michael replied coldly.

“Bullshit.”

Ethan squeezed his hand and nodded his encouragement.

“Look, Michael,” he said. “We can either work together or we can be enemies. I think you know damn well which option Brian would prefer.”

“You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about Brian . . .”

“No, _you’ve_ got a lot of nerve. Not calling me the night he died. Not calling since.”

Justin was surprised when Michael didn’t immediately leap into the fray with all the scratching biting fury of a wet cat.

“Look,” Justin said calmly, taking advantage of Michael’s silence. “Tell me what hasn’t been done, and I’ll do it. I’ll get my mom to help me if I need to. I don’t care what it is. Just let me do _something_ , Michael. Please. I’m literally begging you.”

Michael cleared his throat more than once. It was obvious he was fighting not to break down.

“I’ll put Ben on,” he said tersely.

Justin heard him call his boyfriend’s name and released a huge sigh of relief. Michael’s willingness to let him talk to Ben was as about as big a victory as he could’ve possibly hoped for. He smiled at Ethan, who smiled back.

“Hi, Justin,” Ben said when he picked up the phone. “How are you doing?”

“Not so great,” Justin replied, grateful to be able to talk with someone candidly. He had a feeling he couldn’t say anything to Ben that would shock or alarm him.

“I’m not surprised. I hope you’re taking care of yourself. Who are you staying with?” Ben's voice was calm and kind.

“My mom and little sister.”

“And that’s okay?”

“It’s as okay as it can get, I guess.”

“Justin, I am so sorry for your loss.”

Justin’s throat tied itself in a knot; it took a few moments before he could reply. Ethan looked at him quizzically, unable to ascertain the source of Justin's sudden distress. Justin nodded to him. It was okay.

“Thank you,” he told Ben. "Thank you."

“I overheard you saying you want to help with Brian’s funeral,” Ben continued.

“And putting his affairs in order, yeah.”

“That’s not a problem. There’s a list of a few things that still need to be done.”

“Is . . . has a date been set?”

“Friday morning. There will be a memorial service.”

“Where?”

“At the loft.”

“At the loft?”

“There was a lot of talk about if there should even be a service at all. Michael was pretty convinced Brian wouldn’t want one, but then Debbie noted that memorial services aren’t for the dead; they’re for the living. People need to be able to come together and mourn. It’s an ancient human ritual going back to the dawn of time.”

“But why the loft?”

“Well, we couldn’t very well use Babylon, could we?”

Justin couldn’t stop the laugh that escaped at Ben’s words. 

“And a church or stuffy funeral parlor were out of the question. It was Emmett, actually, who came up with the idea of having the service at the loft.”

Justin’s laugh turned into a choked sob.

“Justin?” Ben asked worriedly.

Justin cleared his throat. “Sorry . . . it’s just that . . . Ben, it’s been so unbelievably fucking _awful_ to be cut out of things. I know . . . everyone knows that Brian and I weren’t . . . that we were in the process of breaking up, but that didn’t mean that I stopped loving him. I _never_ stopped loving him. Not even for a second. And that wasn’t going to change.”

“I know that. Everyone knows that. It’s just been difficult. No one is thinking clearly. Brian’s death was so sudden. It’s terribly hard to lose a loved one under such circumstances. People are doing the best they can, Justin. It’s human nature to want to assign blame when something like this happens, but it’s also human nature to be reasonable and to understand that sometimes things just happen. Everyone is slowly getting to that place of understanding . . . and I hope very much that you are, too.”

“It will help if I can do something. Anything.”

“Hold on let me get the list . . . Okay, so a lot of stuff has already been assigned. Emmett is taking care of ordering chairs, flowers and refreshments. Ted is taking care of Brian’s bills and other financial considerations. Brian didn’t leave a will, so Mel is looking into how his money, assets and property should be divided. I’m writing the obituary. Debbie is going to get everything set up and arranged . . .”

“What about Lindsay and Michael? What are they doing?”

“Well, as of this moment, nothing. Lindsay is not . . . she’s not really in a place emotionally to be dealing with details of a memorial service, and frankly . . . I can say this because he’s gone out for a walk . . . Michael isn’t either.”

“But I am,” Justin said.

“From what Mel has told me, I’d say ‘yes.’ How does that make you feel?”

“Honestly? I don’t know. Shouldn’t I be just as much a wreck as they are? Brian and I were lovers.”

“Yes, you were, but, frankly, you are the strongest of the three of you. I love Michael dearly, but he’s just too angry at the universe right now. Anything he did would involve some kind of negativity. And Lindsay? Well . . . you’ve seen her, I imagine.”

“I went by this morning. She hadn’t slept since . . . since that night. She was a mess.”

“Yes, that’s what Michael and I thought, too. She needs to pull it together for Gus’s sake, and I’m not sure being intimately involved with planning the memorial service is going to help.”

“So, what about me?” Justin asked. “What can I do?”

“I’ve been thinking about this, and so has Debbie. Both of us agree that you should be in charge of the actual service itself.”

Justin was so shocked that he almost dropped the phone.

“Me? Ben . . . I don’t know. I mean, a lot of people blame me for Brian’s death; even if they don’t say it, they do, or at least part of them does.”

“And what about you? Is that what you believe, too?”

Justin remembers taking a deep breath. What should he say? If he said “no,” he’d be lying, but if he said “yes,” he’d get another bullshit lecture about how he’s not to blame and blah blah blah. He was pretty sure that he’d rip the head off the next person who tried to absolve him, and Ben didn't deserve that. Justin didn’t want to splatter him with his hatred of himself. Plus, if he did, maybe Ben would think that he, too, wasn’t fit to help with the service.

“Justin?”

“I . . . Ben, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, I understand and respect that," Ben replied evenly. "But I will just say one crucial thing that can be summed-up in one sentence. Buddha said, ‘in the end, only three things matter: how much you loved, how gently you lived, and how gracefully you let go of things not meant for you.’ Responsibility for Brian's death is not meant for you, Justin. Let it it go.”

Justin remembers squeezing Ethan’s hand until Ethan made a little yelping sound. No one could’ve said anything more helpful even if they lectured him for a hundred years nonstop. He started crying, but for the first time, it wasn’t from grief and shame. It was pure, undiluted gratitude.

“Thank you,” he told Ben through his tears. “I mean that. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”

“I’m glad it resonated with you. Write it down on a piece of paper and carry it around in your pocket. I find that helps me to remember Buddha’s wisdom when I start getting too caught up in the whirlwind of life.”

“Can I have a second?” Justin asked, his words catching in his throat. He needed to take a quiet moment to reflect on the wisdom of Ben's words and make sure it saturated his heart - as least as much as possible. “Don’t go . . . I want to talk about the service, but I need to get a grip on myself. I swear I’m not falling apart like Lindsay, it’s just . . .”

“I know. It’s just that your soul heard something it desperately needed to hear. How about I do some dishes and then call you back? We’ll talk more about the service then.”

Justin told him that would be great. When he hung-up, he fell into Ethan’s arms and sobbed his heart out, clutching the collar of Ethan’s sweater, dampening it with tears and snot. Ethan didn’t say anything; he just rubbed his back.

“Are these happy tears or sad ones?” Ethan asked.

“A mixture of both,” Justin said between sniffles. “Honestly, Ethan? I will never really get how Michael managed to have someone like Ben fall in love with him. I don’t mean that to sound hateful toward Michael, it’s just that . . . Maybe the person Ben should’ve fallen in love with was Brian. I wish he had. Brian deserved someone like Ben – someone who knew what the fuck they were doing in life.”

“You know what you’re doing, too,” Ethan replied.

Justin laughed an ironic little laugh. “To the contrary. I have no idea what I’m doing any more than a blind hamster in a maze.”

Just then, his mom knocked on the doorjamb. Justin pulled away from Ethan.

“You boys want anything?” she asked.

They both shook their heads.

“No, thank you, Mrs. Taylor,” Ethan said.

“‘Jennifer,’” she replied. “Brian called me ‘Jennifer.’ You can, too.”

Ethan looked away abruptly and stared out the bay window.

“I’m not Brian, Mrs. Taylor,” he said. "I never will be."

Justin remembers not being sure what he meant. His mom sighed and returned to the dining room. Before he had a chance to ask Ethan what he meant, the phone rang.

“Is it too soon to call back?” Ben asked when Justin answered.

“No, it’s fine,” Justin replied. “Thanks for giving me a few minutes to get a grip.”

“No problem. Okay, about the memorial service – would you like to hear my thoughts?”

“Very much.”

“Well, I was thinking that a few people should have a chance to speak.”

“Michael, Lindsay and Deb?”

“And you, of course.”

“I don’t know, Ben,” Justin stammered. “I don’t know if I feel comfortable . . .”

“Doing the right thing in difficult circumstances is rarely comfortable.”

Justin didn’t respond right away, but he also wasn’t going to argue. Arguing with Ben would be like arguing with . . . with a lotus flower or something.

“So, Michael, Linds and Deb?”

“You should let them write their speeches in their own words, but then edit them. I’m willing to bet ahead of time that they’ll need it. You should keep in mind that Brian’s co-workers and some of his clients will be there. This isn’t going to just be family . . . speaking of which, I think someone should contact Brian’s mother and sister. Perhaps that person should be you. Michael has a great deal of animosity toward them. I think it would be a good thing if they attended the service, but they probably won’t if Michael gets a hold of them.”

Justin laughed, picturing Michael as a snarling terrier tearing at Brian’s mother and sister’s pant legs.

“Alright,” he said. “I don’t know them, though.”

“I actually think that might be a good thing. Justin?”

“Yes?”

“When you edit Michael, Lindsay and Debbie’s speeches, don’t do it through email. Sit down with them. _All_ of them.”

“Even Michael.”

“Especially Michael.”

“He’s going to resent me if I suggest he change something.”

“Probably . . . but, Justin, you really need to talk with Michael one on one. I believe it’s important.”

“Okay, but why?”

He heard Ben take a deep breath.

“Because . . . because Brian told him something before he lost consciousness.”

Justin remembers feeling the room spin when he heard Ben’s words. Brian had spoken?

“Do you . . . do you know what it is he said?” he asked hesitantly - almost fearfully.

“No. Michael only told me that Brian said something to him. He didn’t tell me what, but even if he did, I wouldn’t tell you. It’s not my place. Only Michael can tell you – and only if he decides to. You don’t have a right to know, but I believe that you _should_ know. Perhaps, when you meet with Michael about his speech, he’ll tell you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then he doesn’t, and you’ll need to accept that.

“I don’t know if I can,” Justin said warily.

“There are many things about Brian’s death you’ll need to accept – no matter how hard it is. Now, I need to go. Michael has just came back from his walk. I’ll tell him about the speeches and how you’ll have the last word.”

“God . . . he’s going to _hate_ that.”

“Meeting with you is a necessity. If he doesn’t do it, then, well, you can make the call as to whether or not to include him.”

“That seems harsh.”

“It is. But you _need_ this, Justin. Debbie and Lindsay will understand that, and they’ll talk to Michael. You won’t be alone, okay?”

“Okay.”

“I’m going to go now. Call me if I can help.”

“I will . . . and, Ben?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

Justin hung up and placed his phone on the coffee table. He was grateful to Ethan when he said he didn’t need to know anything Ben had told him. It wasn’t so much that he didn’t want to tell Ethan; the truth was that he was just too tired to talk any longer. The knowledge that Brian had spoken before he died was . . . was a heavy weight on his heart, and he could feel his spirit bending to the point of breaking like a sapling in an ice storm. All he had the strength for was to thank Ethan for coming over and, even more so, forcing him to contact Michael. He wasn’t at all certain that he would’ve if Ethan hadn’t goaded him to.

Justin’s mom called a cab, and when it arrived, Justin walked Ethan to the door. They stood on the steps for a long time, just looking at each other.

Justin had a feeling – the kind of feeling that had its source in his bones – that they would never see each other again. It seemed that Ethan thought the same thing when he took Justin in his arms and tenderly kissed his cheek.

“I know why you won’t come to my recital,” he said. “But I want you to know that every note I play, I will play for you . . . and for Brian.”

Justin combed his fingers into Ethan’s dark, unruly hair and pressed their cheeks together, both of them wet with tears.

“I won’t forget you,” he whispered.

“Nor I you,” Ethan whispered back.

They didn’t separate until the cab driver honked his horn. Justin’s mom gave Ethan enough money to get to Scranton and back and adamantly refused to give him less. Ethan put on his coat, nodded to both of them and walked out into the night.

Justin stood on the steps for a long time after the cab drove away, his arms wrapped around himself as though he was on the verge of flying apart. He couldn’t get the thought out of his head that Brian wouldn’t have wanted him and Ethan to break up, that he would’ve wanted Justin to be happy. 

“But how can I be happy?” he said to darkness. “You’re gone . . . how can I ever be happy again?”

A cold breeze had picked up after sunset. It carried the scent of sadness. Justin went back inside and walked straight up the stairs to his room. He needed to call Daphne – he needed to tell her that Brian had said something before he died – but he couldn’t. He could only get into bed, Brian’s shirt still covering his pillow, and close his eyes.

He remembers knowing he shouldn’t go there. He _knew_ he shouldn’t. But he couldn’t help it. Not in his weakened, broken-winged state. All he could think of was Brian. Brian lying in the middle of Liberty Ave, his body crossing the dividing line, the wail of approaching sirens, the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber in the air. Brian is trying to breathe, frightened, stunned, in shock. Suddenly, Michael materializes beside him and takes his hand. _Mikey_ , Brian says, and Michael tries to shush him. He can see the blood that’s filling Brian’s mouth and knows instinctively that talking isn’t going to help. He brushes the damp, matted hair back off Brian’s forehead, wincing when he sees a long, jagged gash. Nearby, someone is screaming, “help me! Somebody help me!” Michael doesn’t give a shit – he probably doesn’t even hear the other driver’s cries. All he can hear is Brian struggling for every breath. _It’s okay,_ Michael says, even though he suspects that Brian knows damn well it isn’t. Brian grips his hand with all his waning strength.

What went through his mind in those final minutes? Justin wonders. Whose faces did he see? Did he see his son laughing? Did he see Lindsay smiling at him with exasperated fondness? Did he see Ted and Emmett? Or did he see him, Justin? And if he did, was it the memory of him, flush-faced with eyes full of love and desire . . . or was it the memory of him taking Ethan’s hand . . . taking Ethan’s hand and walking away.

Justin rolled onto his side, clutching his stomach, afraid he was going to be sick, swearing at the universe and pleading with God. Don’t let it be the latter. _Please_ don’t let it be the latter. Because if it was, then he can’t bear it. If it was, he will never _ever_ be okay again.


	4. "Bye Bye, Daddy"

Justin will never forget Joan Kinney’s reaction to hearing the news that her son was dead.

After getting her and Claire’s phone numbers from Ben, he’d gone to sit outside on the deck with its white wicker chairs and pots of pink petunias. He’d woken up that morning feeling as though a wound that’d been poorly sutured the night before had been ripped open. There was a small pond in the woods behind the condo development. He could hear the peeping of countless frogs heralding a spring that would not come for him that year. The morning was warm and bright enough that he’d needed to go down to the basement to find his sunglasses among the boxes he’d packed at the loft. It hadn’t been an easy endeavor. Every one of them contained memories of Brian.

It took nearly an entire hour for him to work up the courage to dial Joan Kinney’s number. He’d sat staring at the leaf-strewn yard hoping his two cups of coffee would kick-in and make him feel at least halfway human. He had no idea what to expect. Would she break down? Would she invoke God? Would she attack him for being the messenger of bad news?

In the end it turned out to be none of those things. Joan’s response to Justin’s stammered news was a chilly “thank you.” That was all. She even hung-up without saying good-bye. Her tone had been even and calm; he could’ve been her mechanic calling to tell her she could pick up her car or a grocery store clerk calling to say she’d left her purse at the register. 

He stared at his phone, his mouth open.

Thank you? 

_Thank you?_

She hadn’t asked what happened. She hadn’t asked about a memorial service. She hadn’t even sounded remotely distressed. She’d just been told that her only son was dead, and all she’d said was a clipped “thank you”?

“Oh, Brian,” he said, his eyes filling with tears. “I didn’t know. I’m so _so_ sorry.”

“Sorry’s bullshit.”

Justin looked up, startled. He’d heard Brian’s voice just as clearly as he could hear the peep frogs and the sound of traffic on the main road. It was as though Brian was sitting in the chair next to his. A sudden breeze tugged the scrap of paper with Joan and Claire’s numbers out of his hand. He had to grab it before it floated over to the neighbor’s yard.

It was the second time he’d sensed . . . something. But then again, mourning makes us wishful fools.

The call to Claire went differently. Justin was pretty much prepared for anything. God knows, she’d probably be just as blasé about the whole thing as her mother had been.

But she wasn’t.

He’d barely gotten out all of the necessary words when she broke down sobbing. After Joan’s reaction, Justin was just as shocked by Claire’s.

“He was my little brother,” she wept. “He was a dick, but he was my little brother.”

Justin had no idea what to say, so he just stammered out the information about the memorial service.

“What happened?” she said. “Tell me. Were you there? Did he suffer?”

Justin couldn’t answer right away. Claire’s tears were on the verge of triggering his own. What should he say? _No, I wasn’t there. I’d just walked out of a party he’d thrown for me with another man with whom I’d been cheating on him for weeks, and, yeah, from what I’ve heard, I do think he suffered. Not for long, but probably long enough for him to know he was dying_.

Jesus.

“Yeah, I was there,” he lied to her gently. “He was hit by a drunk driver and died instantly.”

“Oh, thank you, God,” she said.

“There’s going to be a memorial service on Friday morning. The details will be in an obituary that’s going to be published tomorrow in the Post-Gazette.”

“Were you . . . were you close to him?” she asked between sniffles.

“Yeah,” Justin replied. His voice was hoarse with tears. “I was.”

“Were you his boyfriend? Mom said he had a boyfriend – not that she was happy about it, of course.”

“Yeah,” he replied. Fortunately the word had only one syllable because there was no way he’d be able to say two.

Neither of them said anything for at least a whole minute while they both struggled to get their voices back.

“Did you call my mom?” she asked.

He took a deep breath. “Yeah. I did.”

Claire didn’t respond. She probably could guess what her mother’s response had been.

“Is there anything left to do?” she asked.

“No, but thank you,” he replied. “Do you think you’ll be there?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Debbie and Michael . . . they never liked me, and vice versa.”

“Who gives a shit? Brian was your brother. You have a right to mourn him.”

“But in my own way, not theirs. Did . . . did he ever talk about me?”

Oh God, he thought. He was going to have to lie again. The only time Brian had ever mentioned Claire was one night shortly after their dad’s funeral. He’d been drunk and called her a ‘pathetic cunt.’

“Yeah . . .” he said. “He told me that you guys had a rough time growing up but that you were always there for him.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’re full of it,” she said. “But thanks anyway. I wasn’t there for him – and he wasn’t there for me. We let our parents pull us apart. We were enemies when we should’ve been allies. By the time I realized that, he’d basically stopped speaking to me. Have you ever tried to rebuild burnt bridges with Brian Kinney?”

Justin blanched. The answer, of course, was no. He’d burnt a bridge . . . but he’d never had the chance to try to rebuild it. The possibility had died along with Brian in an ambulance on the way Alleghany General.

“He was a bastard,” Claire sobbed. “I hated him. And now . . . now he’s dead. I had this idea that someday, maybe, we could be close after our bitch of a mother died – or at least closer – but that’ll never happen now.”

Justin didn’t know what more to say. Claire was a part of Brian’s past that Brian had kept from him.

“I hope you come to the memorial service,” he said again, feeling rather lame and helpless in the face of Claire’s strange emotions.

“Did he tell you I tried to drown him at the pool? The lifeguard had to intervene. Our dad had bought him a bicycle for his birthday. He’d never bought me anything. He beat the shit out of Brian when he was drunk – which was a lot of the time – but when he was sober, he was all ‘sonny-boy’ this and ‘sonny-boy’ that. I hated Brian for that. Drunk or not, our dad never gave me a moment’s thought. I was invisible.”

No, of course, Brian hadn’t told him about Claire trying to drown him . . . Justin couldn’t even imagine having such a conversation with him.

“Uhm . . .”

“Never mind. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m telling you this stuff. I should go to church and make a confession. Christ, Brian, you asshole.”

She broke down in tears again. Justin desperately wanted to get off the phone. The morning was rapidly transforming into a waking nightmare. Time for another lie.

“Listen, Claire,” he said apologetically. “I’m really _really_ sorry, but I have another call coming in that I need to answer.”

She sniffled. “Okay. Fine. Bye.”

“I’ll see you at the mem . . .”

But it was too late to finish his sentence. She’d already hung-up. Christ, what was it with the Kinney women? Justin crumbled the scrap of paper in his hand. Among the thousand emotions that had been plaguing him since he’d heard about Brian’s death, now there were at least a dozen more. He knew Brian would hate it, but Justin felt sorry for him. Yes, Justin’s dad had disowned him when he’d found out Justin was gay, but up until then, his father had loved him . . . and so had his mother and sister. His childhood was full of memories of family skiing and camping vacations, of fishing with his father at dawn, making strawberry rhubarb pies with his mom and sledding with Molly on the hill near the golf course. Brian had no such memories.

Is that why he’d often seemed so unapologetically out of reach? He’d been resented since the moment he was born. Why not get out in front of that resentment, that disappointment? Why not disappoint people before they have a chance to be disappointed?

Justin tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He’d never really understood Brian . . . no, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d understood as much as Michael and Lindsay had – maybe their knowledge didn’t always overlap – but he and Brian were _not_ strangers to each other. He knew that. He wouldn’t let grief and regret cause him to forget that he wasn’t a stranger to the man with whom he’d shared nearly every day of his life for almost two years. They knew each other. They loved each other, but . . . .

. . . . but it hadn’t been easy loving someone whose every defense was always on high alert. A kiss at the wrong time might be treated as an attack. A teasing remark might drive him into a bottle of Beam for the night.

If only Brian had told him about his past – about what he’d had to go through. If only Brian had opened up just a little bit more, maybe . . . maybe Justin would’ve never followed that trail of music into that practice room. Maybe he wouldn’t have started wondering if love could offer something more, something better. Something sprinkled with rose petals and as sweet as chocolate promises.

Fuck!

He covered his face with his hands, furious that he’d allowed his mind to drift toward blame, especially now that it was _so_ obvious why Brian had been as cautious and guarded as he was. Would Brian’s childhood have been quantifiably worse if he’d grown up in some orphanage somewhere?

He grabbed his phone and pressed call-back before he could think of a reason not to.

“Hello.”

Joan Kinney’s voice was crisp and incurious. Justin took a deep breath.

“You,” he said, his voice trembling, “you are a horrible person who didn’t deserve to have Brian as your son – or Claire as your daughter, for that matter. You are a selfish, heartless bitch.”

“Who is this?” Joan demanded.

“If I told you, you’d just dismiss my words because of who I am and what I was to Brian. I don’t want you to dismiss them. I want to brand them on your wizened, hateful heart.”

“Ah. I see . . .”

“Actually, no you don’t. You don’t see anything. You never have. You had a beautiful, trusting little boy, and you made his childhood miserable. You and your husband. I hope you both rot in hell.”

“Interesting choice of words, young man.”

“And quite deliberate, I assure you.”

“I suppose you were Brian’s ‘companion.’ How long did you know him? A couple months? A year? You listen to me . . . you have _no_ right to call me names, let alone talk about hell. I _loved_ Brian – he was _my_ son. I took punches for him. I spent nights locked in the bathroom with him and his sister trying to get them to fall asleep on a pile of bath towels while their father pounded on the door and shouted obscenities. I gave that boy everything. What little household money I got from his father, I spent on _him_. Not myself, not Claire, _him_. And what thanks did I get? By the time he turned fourteen, he was swearing at me as much as his father. The truth is that Brian was a selfish, _selfish_ man. You’d think that after I’d protected him, he’d protect me. Well, he didn’t. The first chance he got, he left. After he became friends with Michael, he basically moved in with that Debbie woman and her homosexual brother. I rarely saw him after that. He left me and his sister in the hands of a man he _knew_ might kill us someday. He turned his back on us, and now you want me to feel sad because he’s dead? The only thing that makes me sad is that he didn’t repent his sins before he died. It’s not going to be _me_ rotting in hell. It’ll be him and his father and they’ll be in good company. Now, go away and never contact me again.”

Justin only realized he’d stood up and started pacing when he nearly fell down the deck’s stairs – it was as though Joan Kinney’s words had literally shoved him backwards. He threw his phone into the bushes bordering the yard. He must’ve been yelling because suddenly his mom was there, throwing open the screen door and pleading with him to tell her what was going on. He just looked at her, at her eyes wide with concern and her hands reaching for him instinctively. He went to her and pulled her into his arms.

“I love you so much,” he wept into her hair.

She stepped back and cupped his tear-streaked face in her hands.

“I know you do, sweetie,” she said.

“You’ve been here for me every second since Brian died.”

She cocked her head and looked at him with a questioning frown.

“Of course, I have,” she said. “What else would I do? I’m your mother. Mothers never want to see their babies hurt.” 

“Unless you’re Joan Kinney,” he said. “Then you do.”

* * * * * * * * *

He met with Debbie first.

Four days had passed since Brian’s death. They were sitting at her kitchen table, nibbling half-heartedly on pieces of Vic’s banana custard pie. The T.V. was on, which was unusual. Deb never had the T.V. on when she had visitors. When she’d gone upstairs to get her speech, Vic had told him that she couldn’t tolerate silence. There had to be background noise at all times. Quiet was unbearable. Justin had said he understood. He’d watched more crappy T.V. in the past few days than he’d watched in the previous year.

“Her favorite is the Weather Channel,” Vic had said. “Unsurprisingly, she finds hurricane coverage soothing.”

Justin had laughed half-heartedly.

“I prefer game shows,” he’d said. “And NASCAR. I can’t believe I’m watching NASCAR.”

Vic had reached out and squeezed his shoulder.

“It gets better,” he’d said. “Just take it slow and give it time.”

Justin had sighed. He knew there was no magic fix to the daily grief and horror he endured, but how much can the body endure? How long until your heart _actually_ breaks?

He’d told Deb the day before to write the speech she planned to give at Brian’s memorial service. The draft she had given him was pretty rough, but they’d spent the morning making it suitable for the occasion.

“How about you read it to us, Debbie,” Vic said.

She nodded and pushed herself out of her chair. Justin remembers thinking that she’d aged five years in less than a week. She was wearing make-up, but it was just the barest essentials – mascara and blush. No eye shadow. No boisterous lipstick. He wondered if she’d ever look the same as she had before Brian died.

She stood up straight and cleared the tears from her throat with a brusque, irritated cough.

“I got to know Brian when he was fourteen years-old,” she said. “He was a skinny kid with a leather jacket that I think he thought made him look tough, but he was too damn pretty to be scary. God, he’d be horrified to hear me say that, but it’s true. He’d just moved with his family to Pittsburgh and made friends with my Michael. I’ll never forget it – Michael was all “Brian Kinney this” and “Brian Kinney that.” You’d think the sun shone out of Brian’s you-know-what. He was both the best and the worst thing that ever happened to Michael, and I think those of you who knew him know exactly what I mean.” 

“Brian had a stadium-sized personality. He was never in a room and you didn’t know it. But Brian also had his soft side. I remember there was this one time that Brian and Michael found this mangy old dog with only three legs – it was so flea-bitten I didn’t let them bring it in the house. I told them to let it go. I thought that was that until one day, I opened my shed, and there was that damn dog. Scared the hell out of me. It turned out Brian had spent his allowance on vet bills. Didn’t look like the same animal. Anyway, the boys were crushed when I told them they had to get rid of it. But then Brian came up with the kind of plan only Brian would come up with. He had some posters made with a picture of the dog and this long, sob-story about how the dog had rescued a group of children being attacked by sharks. He and Michael spent an entire day biking around the city hanging up the posters. He even put together a raffle to benefit the family who adopted that ridiculous dog. For fifty cents, you could buy a ticket that could win you a free lunch at the diner. Within twenty-four hours, they’d raised over a hundred dollars, and our district councilman had adopted that crazy mute and donated the raffle proceeds to the humane society.”

“For me, that story is Brian in a nutshell. He was tough on the outside, but when he saw a need, he threw all his brains and energy into getting the need met. Sure, he invented the whole shark attack thing, but often, with Brian, the right end justified the means of getting there. He could be a real asshole, but if you were his friend and you needed him, he’d move the heaven and earth to help you. He was simultaneously the most selfish and least selfish person I’ve ever known, which I know is a contradiction, but that’s what Brian Kinney was. He was a big, ol’ bundle of contradictions.”

“I’d go into a long spiel about how kind and sweet and wonderful he was, but that wouldn’t be want he’d want. Brian was all about confronting ugly truths and giving them the finger, and I think he’d be the first to acknowledge that there were some sides to him that weren’t all that pretty. But he loved deeply and was loved deeply in return. My only hope is that he died knowing that because if he didn’t, my heart will be broken beyond even God’s ability to repair it.”

When she stopped speaking, Justin and Vic stood and helped her to the couch where she flopped as though every bone in her body had turned to rubber.

“So, what did you think?” she asked anxiously.

Justin took Deb’s hand and squeezed it . . . and then he excused himself to go upstairs to the bathroom where he sat on the toilet and cried until she knocked and demanded to know if he was okay.

He got up and let her in, and that’s where they worked out the last few remaining rough patches in her speech – him sitting on the toilet and Deb on the edge of the tub, both of them crying the entire time.

Her speech was beautiful – not entirely one-hundred percent appropriate – but then again, Brian would’ve wanted it that way. Justin had to admit that he’d expected Deb’s speech to be the most controversial of all, but it wasn’t. The only thing he wished . . . the only thing he wished was that he could get her to change the end. The thought that Brian might’ve doubted that he was loved . . . the thought was too horrible.

And it was his fault. Deb hadn’t said so. But it was true.

* * * * * * * *

Later, that afternoon, he visited Lindsay to go over her speech.

He didn’t know what to expect when he saw her. He’d called ahead of time to talk to Mel and was told that Linds was better, but then again “that was a low bar.”

This time he visited without his mom. When he got there, Mel opened the door and ushered him in. The house was dim. All the curtains were pulled, letting through little more than dusty slants of light. Lindsay was sitting at the dining room table. She was wearing black, but her hair was clean and clipped back. She was even wearing a hint of blush.

When he and Lindsay were seated comfortably and sipping their requisite cups of tea, Mel came down the stairs with Gus in her arms. Justin looked away momentarily. How could it be that Gus grew to look more and more like his father every day?

“Gus and I are going to go to the park for a couple hours,” Mel said casually.

Lindsay almost dropped her teacup and begged Mel not to go – or at least not to take Gus with her. Mel came over and kissed her cheek.

“Everything’s going to be okay, sweetheart,” Mel said. “We won’t be gone long. You and Justin need to go over your speech . . . and you need practice being away from Gus.”

Lindsay started to cry, but she didn’t try to stop Mel from leaving. She kissed Gus’s face a dozen times.

“Mommy will be right here,” she said. “Don’t worry. Mommy will be right here.”

Mel caught Justin’s eyes and smiled sadly.

After they left, it took a few minutes for Lindsay to stop crying, but thankfully she wasn’t sobbing. Just quiet, weary tears. Justin took her hand, trying not to cry himself as he read over Lindsay speech. It was beautiful, and he told her so. She smiled a tentative but natural smile.

“Do you want to practice reading it out loud?” he asked. “It might make you less nervous on Friday morning.”

She nodded, but when she tried to stand, she just couldn’t – not even with Justin’s help. So, they remained seated. At first, her voice was so soft that he could barely hear her, but it slowly grew strong and clear.

“Brian was the father of my and my wife’s beloved son, Gus,” she said. “In some ways that’s all you need to know about him. Everyone else will tell you that Brian was ‘difficult’ or that Brian was ‘trouble,’ but to me, Brian was one of the most kind, loving people I know, and that kindness and love shone brightest when he was with Gus.”

“I first met Brian when we were freshmen in college. This may be news to some people here – Brian was my first and only boyfriend. We dated for a year and a half before both of us realized we were more attracted to members of our same sex. During the time we were together, we lived in a kind of Neverland. It was just him and me. I was his Wendy and he was my Peter. We were attached at the hip. He could make me laugh like no one else ever had – or ever will again. We were so different, but we were also so alike. He made me feel alive when I was with him. To imagine him dead . . . well, I can’t do it. Brian epitomized life for me. Wild, carefree, dangerous. The thought of him dead is sometimes more than I can bear.”

“Gus isn’t here this morning. I didn’t think it was a good idea to expose an eighteen month-old to so much sadness. But I brought a picture that I’ll pass around. He looks just like his daddy did. When they were together it was like they were two souls who’d been parted briefly by time but reunited again. It breaks my heart that they’ve been separated yet again, but I know that they’ll be together again someday. That all of this is just temporary. I take peace in that and I truly hope that others who loved Brian take peace in that as well. Everyone in this room failed him, but everyone in this room also brought him happiness. Is it better to be hurt and loved than to have never been loved at all? I think we can all agree that the answer is yes.”

“For my part, I loved Brian more than words can ever express. Part of me feels like I shouldn’t even try, that any attempt I’d make would be like trying to capture an ocean in a raindrop. He was brilliant, generous and beautiful both inside and out. He adored his son, and his son adored him. Did Brian make all the right choices? No, but then again, do any of us? Trapped in the forest of life, is it surprising that sometimes all we can see are the trees? Just because he’s no longer here, I’m not going stand up here and tell you he was perfect. He wasn’t. But his imperfections were _human_ imperfections. They’re the kinds of imperfections God bestows on us all as challenges to overcome, not flaws by which to damn and define us.”

“Good-bye, Brian. Time cannot diminish my memory of even one single moment we spent together. You were my best friend and the father of my baby boy. May you forever rest in peace. Don’t look back. Don’t grieve. No apologies, my love. No apologies, no regrets.”

Unlike Deb, Lindsay didn’t break down after she read her speech. Instead she reached for Justin’s hand and held it gently, her eyes closed and her expression serene. They sat like that for a while, the world around them was still and dark, but also oddly comforting.

“Have you sensed him?” she asked quietly.

Justin was startled. For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond . . . because the answer was yes. Or at least, he thought it was yes. Until Lindsay mentioned it, he’d thought he’d been imagining things.

“Gus sees him all the time,” she continued. “I know he does. Mel thinks I’m losing my mind.” She laughed. “Do you think I’m losing my mind?”

Justin shook his head. But did he mean it? It certainly looked and sounded like Lindsay was losing her mind . . . but then he remembered Gus on his swing the other day. He’d seen _something_ , something or someone he’d called “daddy.”

“I sense him, but I can’t see him,” she said. “Please tell me it’s not because I’m crazy.”

“It’s not because you’re crazy,” he said. “If you’re crazy then I think I might be crazy too, and I don’t feel crazy. I just feel broken.”

She squeezed his hand, but only very gently.

“If his spirit is here, he might be annoyed with us,” she continued. “We’re wallowing. Maybe that’s why Gus can see him and we can’t. Children don’t wallow.”

Just then, as if on cue, Mel walked through the door, carrying Gus. Her face was pale despite the cool, wet breeze.

Justin stood up and took a laughing Gus from her.

“Mel?” he whispered. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”

“If I told you, you’d lock me in the same padded room as Linds,” she whispered back. “Justin, I swear to God Gus saw Brian.”

Justin remembers the odd sensation of something brushing past him, something as light and prickly as linen, and then Gus waved.

“Bye bye, daddy,” he said cheerfully.

Justin looked at Lindsay. She was smiling.

“See you later, Peter,” she said.


	5. The Mandala

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before reading this chapter, take a look at this link. [Mandala Sand Painting](http://www.mysticalartsoftibet.org/mandala.htm). It'll help things make sense. (Hopefully.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is not the original ending I had written, but it's much better (and happier). 
> 
> Also, I want to mention that I don't hate Michael and didn't intend this to be character-bashing . . . but more about that in the end notes.

 

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

Today is a special day although Justin tries not to favor it above any other. He can’t help it though. He hasn’t been a monk long enough to think of time with complete equanimity. Today is the day the huge Mandala will be destroyed. He and his brothers have been working on it for months, shaping it out of brilliantly colored sand, pinch by meticulous pinch, grain by grain, and today it will be swept into a pile – countless days of labor converted from an intricate pattern into a heap of meaningless dust. It is Justin’s first Mandala. It is beautiful beyond words. As the newest member of the monastery, he will be the one given the broom, and he will fight his human grasping. His grief at destroying something so wondrous. But losing something only hurts if we’re attached to it in the first place. It is the most critical lesson a Buddhist monk must learn, and for Justin, it’s by far the hardest. The lesson of letting go. Today will be a huge step toward that goal.

He’s conducting his daily puja but because today is special, he’s offering to Buddha something equally special. The white orchid blossom. It floats gracefully in the hand-carved bowl. Its swanlike elegance is effortless. Justin watches it move almost imperceptibly in the light breeze. The West Virginian dawn is nothing but a narrow orange ribbon on the horizon. Despite being mid-summer, the mountain air is cool enough to make him shiver in his thin nightshirt, but he does not seek warmth. He never does.

He still has dreams. It’s okay. He’s not ready to give them up even when they leave him as hollowed out as an autumn gourd. His teacher tells him that it takes time – a lifetime, maybe even more – to let go. He has Justin imagine a butterfly trapped in his cupped hands. Every brush of the butterfly’s wings is a memory. It flutters and flutters, trying to escape, but to set it free is to lose the one last thing tying Justin’s consciousness to the suffering of the world – his suffering, the butterfly’s suffering, the suffering that wanting inflicts on all of us. Wanting and not having. Wanting and inevitably losing. The Mandala swept away into nothingness.

Last night, he’d dreamed of Brian. This morning the butterfly is tearing its wings to shreds against the cage of his fingers.

He watches the blossom bob on the surface of the shallow water. He’d chosen this particular one out of the dozens in the monastery’s greenhouse. Of all its fellows, it is the most perfect, the most flawless, the most beautiful. When Justin first saw it, his throat tightened with emotions he hasn’t felt in a long time. Desire . . . and grief. He knows the blossom reminds him of Brian. Brian’s beautiful body. He hasn’t been a monk long enough to forget what longing tastes like.

He offers up the blossom and, along with it, his dream of making love to Brian. He bows and stands. It’s time for breakfast. He returns to his room in the monastery and puts on his orange robe. Just before he leaves, he looks at the unopened envelope on his writing desk. He’s been doing the same thing every morning for two years. Every day, he wonders if that day will be the day that he finally opens it.

It never is.

* * * * * * * * *

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

Justin remembers only scraps and tatters of Brian’s memorial service. The rest is a miasma of sickening shock. It’d been twenty-four hours since Michael had told him what Brian had said before he died, but it might as well have been no more than five minutes. The puncture wound in his heart was still open, still seeping. Justin wasn’t sure it would ever stop.

There was a surprisingly large number of attendees – more than Emmett had planned for, which meant some people had to stand. Most everyone was wearing suits, but some men – probably Brian’s tricks – wore less appropriate attire. No one seemed to care. For his part, Justin was dressed in black pants, a white shirt – open at the collar – and a black blazer. His mom had thought a tie with a splash of color would be nice, even if it was just dark blue or burgundy, but he’d merely shaken his head. Michael had drained all color from the world. It was a miracle he went to the service at all, tie or no tie.

Everything went smoothly. Deb, Lindsay and Michael’s speeches were moving. The short poem Ben had chosen and Emmett had read made people smile through their tears. Afterward, nearly everyone stayed for refreshments and talked in hushed voices about memories of Brian. Some people cried, but no one broke down. As his mom said afterward, everything was “lovely.” He, himself, had stood in the farthest corner, dry-eyed. At some point during the endless night, his lids had turned into sandpaper. 

He and Daphne were the last people to leave. They lay on Brian’s bed holding hands and staring up at the ceiling. She’d been trying to get him to talk to her all day, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t. His tongue was a nerveless slab of meat, still slimy with the viscous taste of a nightmare.

He wasn’t okay. He was never going to be okay again.

Later, when he was asked if there was anything of Brian’s he wanted, he’d said no.

* * * * * * * * *

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

He visits the Mandala in the great hall before he joins his bothers to break their fast. Slants of dawn light spilling through the windows sets its colors ablaze. In mere hours it will be nothingness. He tries not to mourn, but it’s hard. So very very hard.

He rinses his hands in the bowl by the dining room door before joining his brothers at the low table surrounded by straw-filled cushions. Breakfast is bread, milk and honey – all of it produced by the monks, themselves. The bread is freshly baked. When he splits a loaf, steam rises into the air, fragrant with yeast.

Their teacher strikes the gong, signaling the start of the day. Its echoes fill the valley with billowing sound. Being the youngest monk, Justin starts the morning prayer, the Tibetan flowing easily, no longer something he has to think about. It’s the only language he speaks now. When his mom and sister visit the monastery, they need to use a translator. Justin is sure they don’t mind though. At least he’s speaking in _some_ language these days.

He’s been at the monastery for four years. When he’d first arrived, he’d been like a bird with a broken wing – a man with a broken heart. Ben had been with him. He remembers that at least. Ben hadn’t asked – and Justin hadn’t told him – about the words that Michael had said that fateful morning. He’d just known that Justin needed a sanctuary, and the monastery had been the first place he’d thought of. He’d spent a couple months there before he’d met Michael and knew several of the monks. Two years later, Justin had been ordained. 

Pittsburgh is less than two hours away, but he hasn’t been there since the day he left. At least not physically. But some nights he walks down Liberty Avenue, barefoot, his monk’s robe lapping at his ankles like flames as though he’s walking, like a penitent, on a bed of blazing coals.

* * * * * * * * *

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

It was the day before the memorial service . . .

Michael called, waking Justin from a dream of Brian, and told him brusquely that he could come over. After hanging up, Justin remembers looking out the window and seeing Molly waiting for the school bus wearing her green, turtle-shaped backpack. It’s strange what we remember . . . and what we forget. He also remembers that his mom’s car needed gas and that he’d stopped at the Exxon on the corner – the one that always seemed to have a pump that’s out of order.

What he doesn’t remember is driving down Liberty Avenue for the first time since Brian died. He knows he must have – it was the easiest and quickest way to get to Michael and Ben’s place – but he doesn’t remember. Maybe he’d blocked it out. Maybe when he’d driven past Babylon, he’d seen Brian’s body lying in the middle of the road.

Ben answered the intercom when Justin buzzed and then let him in when he knocked on the door. Justin remembers he looked tired. He smiled and gave Justin a warm hug, which Justin returned. They held each other for a long moment, and when they parted, Justin saw Michael. He was sitting at the dining table.

In his mind, at some point, he must have erased Michael’s features because all he can remember is a flesh-colored blur with pit-black eyes. It’s a hellish vision that still comes to him sometimes, interrupting his meditation suddenly and making his stomach turn over and bile rise in his throat. Michael was wearing a red short-sleeved shirt and was sitting with his elbows on the table and a sheet of paper in front of him. He didn’t stand when Justin greeted him.

It was then that Justin had realized that he was hated – really and truly _hated_. It chilled him to the marrow of his bones.

Ben cleared his throat.

“Justin,” he said. “I’ve gone over Michael’s speech, and I think it’s really good. I don’t think it needs editing.”

Justin turned to him, his mouth open. If he didn’t need to be here then why the hell had Michael told him to come over? When he asked as much, Michael said it was because there was something Justin needed to know, and he wanted to be able to say it to Justin’s face. Justin looked at Ben.

“I don’t know what it is,” Ben said. “And, to be honest, I don’t know if you want to hear it. You don’t have to, Justin. Sometimes things are best left unknown because once you know something, it’s impossible to unknow it. Especially something like this.”

Justin nodded. Frankly, he was annoyed. He felt cornered and not just a little bit frightened.

“I’m going to run a couple errands,” Ben said. “I’ll be back in about an hour. If you’re gone when I come back, Justin, I’ll see you tomorrow at the service. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do to help out.”

Justin merely nodded. The last thing in the world he wanted was to be left alone with Michael. There was something as dark and thick as oil in the room, and Michael was its source.

“Well, are you going to sit down?” Michael asked.

Justin nodded again and pulled out a chair. They both watched Ben put on his coat and shoulder his bike. When he closed the door behind him, the noise was surprising loud given all the racket on the sidewalk below.

They sat in silence just looking at one another. Finally, Michael spoke.

“I’ve been imagining this moment for days,” he said. “Seeing you, I mean. I’ve been wondering what I’m going to say to you. Tell me, Justin, is there anything I can say that will make you want to kill yourself?”

Justin gasped. Of all the things he’d envisioned Michael saying . . .

“You want me _dead_ ,” he replied, totally incredulous.

Michael merely shrugged. “Sometimes,” he said as though Justin had asked him something as mundane as “do you want fries with your burger?”

“So, you want me dead,” Justin said again, still incredulous. Who said things like that?

“If it would bring Brian back, then hell, yes, I do,” Michael spat angrily.

“Well, it’s _not_ going to bring Brian back,” Justin replied just as angrily. “Is this how it’s going to be, Michael? Are we going to be enemies?”

Michael pushed his chair back from the table and stood up slowly – so slowly it looked like he’d been the one hit by a drunk driver. He looked damaged. Lost. Dangerous. Justin tensed. Was Michael going to punch him? And if he did, would he, Justin, fight back? Or would he take it as his due?

But Michael didn’t punch him. Instead, he wrapped his arms around himself and walked over to the window and stood looking out at the street for a long time. When he finally spoke, he didn’t turn around.

“Ben told me that he talked to you the other night while I was out for a walk. He told me all the usual zen bullshit about how stuff is never anyone’s fault, and that even the drunk driver who hit Brian was acting in his nature or some kind of crap like that. I didn’t get it, but what I _did_ get was that he was trying to convince me that Brian’s death was not your fault.”

Justin swallowed as the tears filled his eyes. He knew what was coming, and like a sailor in a storm, he set his shoulders and steered his heart straight forward into the gale. Didn’t part of him want this? Didn’t part of him _need_ this?

“You,” Michael said, his voice low and venomous, “you murdered Brian in cold blood. You might as well have been behind the wheel of that car that hit him. You have his blood on your hands.”

Justin shoved back his chair and stood up.

“Turn around,” he shouted at Michael, and when Michael didn’t immediately comply, he shouted at him again. “Turn the fuck around!”

“You’re right,” he said, when Michael finally looked at him. “Brian’s blood _is_ on my hands. Do you really think I don’t know that? Do you _really_ think I don’t wake up every morning and go through the hell of remembering that, not only is Brian dead, but that it’s my fault?”

“Then tell me,” Michael said. “Tell me how it is that you’re still up walking around. Tell me how you get out of bed. Because I barely can.”

“I get out of bed the same way you obviously do. I sit up, put my feet on the floor and stand.”

“Fuck you.”

“No, fuck _you_! Don’t you dare try to tell me that because I showered this morning and ate breakfast and drove a car here that I’m grieving any less than you are!”

Michael marched up to him, his fists clenched.

“You have no right,” he hissed in Justin’s face. “You have no right to compare what we’re going through. Brian was my best friend. He was my life for fifteen years. I’m not a snotty piece of jail bait that had him wrapped around his little finger. Because that’s how it was, Justin. You had Brian by the fucking balls, and what did you do? You cheated on him. You lied to him. You made-out with that fiddler kid. Then you turned around, looked Brian straight in the face, and walked out. In front everyone!”

Justin’s tears spilled over and ran down his face, but he didn’t blink, and he didn’t wipe them away.

“I’m going to leave now,” he said shakily.

“So,” Michael said. “That’s your response? Nothing? That’s it? You don’t want know what Brian said before he died?”

Justin shook his head. Now that it had come down to it, he didn’t want to know. He really _really_ didn’t want to know. Michael was clearly looking forward to telling him; that couldn’t be a good sign. Whatever it was Brian had said was going to change his life forever. He’d already been through the whiplash of Brian’s death. He didn’t know if he could survive another.

“I’m leaving,” Justin said again and headed to the door. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Michael . . .”

“He said,” Michael blurted so quickly that Justin didn’t have a chance to cover his ears. “He said to tell you he wished he’d let you die.”

* * * * * * * * *

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

The monastery is located deep in the Appalachian Mountains perched above towns ravaged by unemployment, poverty, OxyContin and despair. On most days, when it’s not his turn to tend the garden or prepare their meals, Justin goes into the towns with his brothers. They play many roles. Teachers. Doctors. Bringers of healthy food and comfort. But mostly they bring newness and curiosity. Who are these strange, gibbering men in sandals and hand-dyed robes?

But today is different. Today the monks aren’t going to the towns; the towns are coming to them. News has spread about the Mandala. People on stoops and in diners have been discussing it for weeks. Justin’s brothers who speak English have tried to describe the purpose behind it and its destruction, but it’s hard for people, who have so little, to understand why the monks would voluntarily let it go. After all, this is a place where families pass down the most mundane things from generation to generation. A cheap vase bought at a flea market. A penny from the 1920’s. A car that long ago sputtered its last mile.

Justin has to fight back his fear of the growing crowd. He hasn’t been around this many people in an enclosed space for a very long time. Unwanted memories are spilling in like water through a hole in a sinking ship. He scans the expectant faces, looking for people he’s seen before. There are many. Some of the children wave, and he smiles and nods. He’s just about to turn away and join his brothers standing on the other side of the hall when he sees him.

Ben.

Justin has to grab a beam to stay standing. He hasn’t seen Ben – or anyone else from his former life – in years. In fact, he hasn’t seen Ben since that rainy night when Ben tracked him down to the seediest bathhouse in Cleveland, and found him with a crack pipe in one hand and some stranger’s dick in the other. Justin had been too fucked up to recognize him let alone protest when Ben bundled him into his car and drove him into the night-filled hollows of West Virginia.

Justin’s heart is skipping beats. He takes a deep breath. 

“Pain is inevitable,” he says to himself. “But suffering is optional.” 

When Ben catches his eye, Justin nods.

Ben moves slowly as though he’s swimming through the people around him. His eyes are anxious. Justin wonders what he’s thinking. He wonders why he’s here. Today of all days. 

“Justin,” Ben says, reaching out his hand and then withdrawing it quickly. Monks from Justin’s monastery do not touch. Ben obviously remembers that from his brief stay as a layperson.

Justin raises his hands in prayer and bows in recognition. Ben smiles and bows back. When Justin tries to speak to him all that emerges is Tibetan. He wants to ask Ben what brought him here, but English is no longer his first language.

Ben must see the question in his eyes.

“I read about the Mandala in the Post-Gazette,” he says. “I wanted to witness its return to formlessness.”

Justin smiles. It’s nice to know that Ben understands what the day means.

* * * * * * * * *

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

Later, when Justin was back in the car, his hands clutching the steering wheel, his eyes staring straight ahead, he remembers wondering if Michael had foreseen the effect of his revelation. The total destruction it would bring. Or had he not thought that far ahead? Was the perverse pleasure he obviously experienced as far as he’d imagined? Or had he lain awake at night relishing the image of Justin’s breakdown?

Those were only some of the questions plundering his thoughts in the aftermath of Michael’s drawn-out description. The blood in Brian’s mouth. The gasping for breath. The compound fracture. The white canvas of exposed bone painted with the colors of the ambulance’s flashing lights. Brian gripping Michael’s collar in one hand, while the other clawed at his throat, dragging Michael down so he could make himself heard above the mayhem.

_Tell him I wish I had let him die._

“Why?” Justin had pleaded with Michael. “Why did you do this to me? Do you really hate me _that_ much?”

He’ll never forget the cold-voiced response.

“Yes. Actually, I do.”

From that moment on, Justin hadn’t spoken a word. Everyone had begged him to tell them what was wrong, but he didn’t. How could he? How do you find the strength to repeat something like that? How do you find the resilience to be comforted? And what was more, how do you break people’s hearts? No one would’ve ever thought of Brian the same way again. Those hateful words would’ve tarnished his memory. Justin didn’t want that. His past with Brian had been obliterated and torn to shreds. Why do that to Lindsay? To Deb? To Gus? Michael’s secret was his, too. The only difference is that Michael took strength from it. For Justin, it merely sucked the life out of him like a leech. Brian’s dark wish, slimy and squirming with rage and revenge.

* * * * * * * * *

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die._

* * * * * * * * *

Justin greets Ben in Tibetan, and to both of their amusement, Ben replies in his own mangled sentences that equal something along the lines of “morning salutations whole friend hours.” They regard each other for a long moment, reading the lines time has left on their faces.

“You look well,” Ben says in English, and Justin thanks him in Tibetan.

“Life as a monk suits you. Who knew?” 

Justin laughs. Indeed. Just a few years ago, if someone had told him he’d be speaking in Tibetan and living as a celibate he would have laughed his butt off.

“It’s as beautiful here as I remember it,” Ben says. “It was winter when I stayed here, so I didn’t see everything in bloom, but it’s beautiful in every season.”

Justin smiles. He’s feeling more than a little weird. Seeing Ben is a shock to say the least.

“I told everyone I was going to see you today,” Ben continues. “They send their love.”

Justin clenches his teeth. He can’t help it. He’s surprised that just thinking about Pittsburgh can send him spiraling back in time to a place he doesn’t often go any longer. A dark place. A place reeking of grief and pain.

“Especially Michael.”

Justin gasps. He can’t help it. Michael? How could Ben . . . ? This was a sanctuary. A holy place into which Ben was bearing hatred. The betrayal nearly knocks Justin off his feet, and this time Ben does touch him. It’s reflexive. If he hadn’t grab Justin’s arm, he would’ve fallen. When Justin pulls away, Ben drops his hand. They both look at the red marks Ben’s fingers had left on Justin’s skin. Justin wonders fleetingly whether they’ll become bruises and wonders how he’ll explain them to his brothers.

“Leave,” Justin says. It’s the first word in English he’s spoken in years. It sounds ugly to his ears and tastes bitter on his tongue.

Ben is standing, frozen in shock, his mouth hanging open.

“Please,” Justin begs as the tears fill his eyes. He feels like his years of peace are being stripped away. He feels naked and vulnerable, and it scares him.

“I don’t understand,” Ben says, totally perplexed. “No one speaks of you with anything but love in their hearts.”

Justin’s shock turns into anger. The anger scares him even more than the grief had. He’d thought he’d left both behind him.

“How . . . can . . . you . . . say . . . that?” he stammers, grabbing at the English words as though they’re moths flitting around a light.

“Because it’s true,” Ben says, sounding increasingly confused and upset.

Justin can’t bear the encounter any longer. He pushes his way through the crowd, ignoring the gasps of surprise. Monks don’t have emotional outbursts – at least not in public. When he reaches the doors, he runs across the small courtyard to the dormitory. He needs to escape the memories battering his brain.

_Tell him I wish I’d let him die_.

He looks back and realizes to his horror that Ben is following him. He’d run faster, but his sandals aren’t sneakers; he’s slipping and skidding on the mossy flagstones.

“Justin!” Ben calls. “Please! What’s wrong?”

Justin stops and turns around. If he’s learned anything over the years, it’s to not run away, to look what terrifies him straight in the eyes. He’d spent months in solitary meditation exorcising his demons. This one – Brian’s words and Michael’s revenge – is the most terrifying of them all. It’s time to face it head-on. If not now, then when?

“Michael . . . !” Justin pants. “Michael broke my heart, and now he tells you to send his love? Ben, do you even know what he told me? Did he tell you? He told me Brian said he wished he’d let me die! Who does that? Who wants to do that to another human being?”

He starts crying. He hasn’t cried in a very long time. It doesn’t feel good. It feels like failure. It feels like fear and sadness and suffering. All the things he’s been working _so_ hard to let go of.

“Oh God,” Ben breathes. He sounds positively horrified. “Justin . . . Justin . . . didn’t you get the letter?”

Justin blinks at him. The letter? What is he talking about?

“There was a letter,” Ben says wildly. “A letter. Michael wrote you a letter two years ago. Christ, Justin. It was a _lie_. Michael told me he lied to you. After he found out what happened to you . . . after you left Pittsburgh . . . he had a breakdown. He told his therapist that he lied about what Brian had told him, and then he told me, and I told him he had to write to you. He _had_ to! He couldn’t just let you believe that Brian wished he let you die! It was beyond cruel. He promised he’d write to you, and I know he did. I mailed the letter myself!”

“So then what _did_ he say?” Justin yells. “Tell me that, Ben! If Brian didn’t tell Michael he wished he’d let me die, then _what did he say_?”

Ben looks helpless. There are tears in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Justin,” he says. “Michael wouldn’t tell me, but the letter . . .”

“What letter?” Justin yells. “What are you _talking_ about?”

And then it hits him. The envelope. The envelope without a return address. The envelope on his desk. The envelope he has left unopened for so long . . .

“Oh, God,” he breathes.

Ben is still looking at him helplessly.

“I have it,” Justin says wildly. “I have the letter. I’ve had it for years. I haven’t been able to open it. I didn’t know who it was from and I was so scared of what it might contain. I needed to let go . . .”

Ben grabs his shoulders and shakes him as though Justin is in a trance.

“Do you still have it?” he says desperately.

Justin nods, too stunned to answer in words.

“Where is it?”

“In my room,” Justin replies, but before Ben can say another word, he turns and runs into the dormitory, charging up the stairs to his room. When he sees it, he stops dead. There it is. The envelope. The envelope that has haunted his dreams.

He takes a deep breath and tears it open.

At first he thinks the paper is blank, but then he sees it, written in pencil in tiny letters.

_He told me to tell you he loves you_.

That was it. Nothing more.

_He told me to tell you he loves you_.

* * * * * * * *

The room is quiet, even the children have stopped fidgeting. The only sounds in the air are the cow bells in the pasture and the crowing of the rooster in the courtyard.

Justin’s teacher hands him the broom. He can feel the suspense humming and snapping in the air. Hundreds of curious eyes search his face for hesitation. Is he _really_ going to do this?

Justin is shaking, not only from the enormity of what he’s about to do – the destruction he’s about to cause – but with the new knowledge that, for years . . . for _years_ . . . he’d lived with a lie. A lie that had shaped his life. A lie that had destroyed him just as thoroughly as he is about to destroy the Mandala. A lie that had allowed him to believe that the man he loved had wished he was dead.

_He told me to tell you he loves you._

Mistaking Justin’s trembling for fear, Justin’s teacher places a comforting hand on his shoulder.

“Just remember,” he says. “All that we are is a result of all that we have thought up until this moment.”

Justin looks into his eyes and then into the eyes of each of his brothers and feels his heart bloom with love. He’s ready now.

Everyone is holding their breath as he walks with infinite care into the center of the Mandala. He takes a deep breath and searches the crowd for Ben. When he finds him, he smiles. Ben smiles back.

And then that’s when Justin sees him. Brian. He’s standing beside Ben, his eyebrow arched in an expression that clearly says “okay, get on with it, Sunshine.” Justin lowers the broom, his eyes never leaving Brian’s face, and at the exact same moment, Brian raises his hand to his lips and blows. Suddenly Justin is engulfed by a whirlwind of brilliant color. 

_Tell him I love him_.

Justin throws back his head, arms outstretched, and laughs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh boy. Wow. That's it. I am _so_ glad to have finally posted all of this story - it's been a very emotional journey. Thanks for coming along for the ride with me.
> 
> As with most of my stories, I'm not happy with the transition between the final chapter and the one immediately preceding it, but I fiddled around with it to the edge of sanity. So what you get is what you got. I hope it made sense.
> 
> About Michael: Michael doesn't come across so well in this story, to say the least, but in his defense, he was suffering a great deal, and people are not themselves when they're suffering. People become like wounded animals, lashing out at any one who comes near them. Because this story was from Justin's POV and he left Pittsburgh shortly after the events in this story, we don't get to see the transformation Michael went through. Ben wouldn't still be with him if, at the end of the day, Michael was a truly terrible person. Like everyone else in this story, Michael needed to find peace, and when he did, he used it to help Justin. Now if only Justin had opened that damn letter sooner!


End file.
